The next time Brynn awoke, the headache she had dreaded the day before was, mercifully, absent. She exhaled a long, quiet breath and sat up, glancing around the room as if to remind herself where she was.
For a long moment, she just sat there, her hands limp in her lap, before swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and planting her feet firmly on the cold floor. She winced at the chill but welcomed it -- something real to focus on, something to anchor her.
Pushing herself upright, she made her way to the galley, hoping for something warm to drink -- and maybe a way to ease into the day.
She stood in front of the machine and hesitated, not because she didn't know what she wanted -- she did -- but because she didn't know how to ask for it. The words seemed caught somewhere between her throat and her mind, as though even forming them would take too much effort.
"Ophelia, could you--"
"Of course, Miss Phytrelia."
Seemingly reading her mind, the machine chimed softly as it produced a black mug, steam curling lazily from its rim.
Brynn wrapped her hands around the cup, savoring the heat against her chilled fingers. She brought it to her lips, inhaling deeply before taking a sip. A soft sigh escaped her as her eyes drifted closed.
"Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "I feel... a little better now."
She shuffled over to the table and slid into a seat, placing the cup on the surface before flopping back against the booth's cushioning. Her head thudded lightly against the backrest as she tilted her face up, staring blankly at the ceiling.
For a long moment, she said nothing, and then she leaned forward again, cradling the cup as though it might anchor her to something solid. She glanced sideways at Ophelia's projection on the table.
"What am I going to do, Ophelia?"
