That night, when Daniel handed me the cup, I was ready.
I smiled as always, nodded as always, and brought the rim of the cup to my lips as always… but instead of swallowing, I let the liquid rest on the tip of my tongue.
Bitter.
Metallic.
Nothing like valerian.
“Drink it slowly,” Daniel said, leaning against the doorframe with that calm expression that lately had started to terrify me. “It’ll help.”
I performed the entire act: a few fake sips, a sigh, eyelids pretending to grow heavy. Then, when he briefly glanced toward the hallway, I carefully tilted the cup and poured the tea into the dry potted plant in the corner, behind the curtain.
“Good night, Dani,” I whispered, lowering my voice a little.
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