Mila set the glass down and reached for her fork, but her hand moved slower than it should have been.
She noticed it immediately... the way her fingers felt heavier than they had a moment ago, like they were moving through something thicker than air.
She blinked, trying to clear the faint haze that had started to settle over her vision, and focused on the chocolate tart in front of her.
The edges of the plate were still sharp while everything beyond it started to blur around the edges.
Something was wrong.
Her balance felt off, like the floor beneath her had tilted just slightly to the left without actually moving at all.
She pressed her palm flat against the table to steady herself. The marble was cool beneath her hand, solid and grounding, and she focused on that sensation—the texture, the temperature, the weight of her own body pressing down against it—while she tried to assess what was happening.
