Victoria Peach Camhure screamed. A real scream. The first sound she’d made in weeks.

Outside, the tendril withered in the dawn light. The peach turned to ash. And Victoria, for the first time in years, let go of nothing—but held onto something new: the small, terrible, human freedom of remembering.

Her fingers touched the stem.

And stopped.

Dr. Lena Morrow, the resident on call, took the case. She’d seen hundreds of Victorias. Women shattered by something unspeakable, retreating into the amber glow of a delusion because reality had become too sharp. Lena’s job was to gently coax them back, or at least build a soft enough cage to hold them.