His new stepsister His biggest threat (Claire and Elijah) novel Chapter 83

**Chapter 83**

Claire’s POV

A weight settled heavily on my chest, constricting my breath.

With a hesitant turn of my head, I focused on the wooden frame of the door. “Who’s there?” My voice emerged as a fragile whisper, laced with uncertainty. The stillness that followed was deafening; nothing stirred in the shadows.

The atmosphere thickened, as if the air itself was pregnant with unspoken words, suggesting that someone had just vacated the space moments before I called out. I held my breath for a few seconds, glancing over at my mother, who remained blissfully asleep, her hand resting gently on the edge of my blanket, a silent guardian in the night.

Perhaps it was just a nurse, I thought, or maybe it was all a figment of my imagination. I sank back into the pillow, attempting to calm the rapid rhythm of my heart. The faint, sterile scent of disinfectant invaded my senses. I closed my eyes, seeking solace in the darkness.

But when sleep finally enveloped me, it was anything but tranquil.

In my dream, I found myself surrounded by towering trees, their trunks stretching high into the sky, obscured by a thick canopy. The ground beneath my bare feet felt damp and cold, and the air was suffused with an eerie fog. A voice, distant yet urgent, called my name. It was a tone I couldn’t quite place—low and desperate, slicing through the stillness like a knife. I turned in circles, searching for the source, but all I glimpsed were fleeting shadows: a hand reaching out, a figure half-hidden in the mist.

Then the voice transformed. It fractured, breaking apart under the weight of sorrow. It pleaded with me to return. My heart raced, yearning to respond, yet my body refused to comply. A deep ache settled within me, as if something vital was being torn asunder. I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound emerged.

Suddenly, I jolted awake, gasping for breath. My hand instinctively flew to my chest, feeling the frantic thumping of my heart. The room remained shrouded in darkness, but I could see my mother stirring, blinking at me with concern. “What happened?” she inquired, her voice soft and soothing.

“I—I just had a dream,” I managed to whisper, unsure how to articulate the turmoil swirling inside me.

She reached for my hand, her touch warm and reassuring. “You’re safe,” she murmured. “Just go back to sleep.”

I nodded, though my pulse raced on, the echo of that haunting voice still reverberating in the recesses of my mind.

The following morning brought news from the doctors: I was stable enough to go home. I watched as my mother moved with quiet efficiency, packing a small bag beside the bed. Her eyes frequently darted up to meet mine, as if she feared I might vanish if she blinked.

Stepping out of the hospital felt surreal. The hallways, the faces of the staff, the sound of rubber soles against the polished floor—all of it seemed like a dreamscape I had inhabited for far longer than I could remember, even though I knew that wasn’t true. My mother gently held my elbow as we walked. The moment we reached the car, a brisk gust of cool air met my face, causing me to shiver involuntarily.

The drive home unfolded in silence. The rain had ceased, yet the sky remained a dull gray, mirroring the unease that settled in my heart. I focused on the trees whizzing past outside the window, aware that I was meant to recognize the road, but all I saw were vague shapes and colors that held no meaning for me. My mother’s eyes flicked to me every few minutes, her knuckles white against the steering wheel.

When we arrived at the house, she hesitated before unlocking the door. “Take your time,” she advised gently. “Don’t rush yourself to remember anything just yet.”

As I stepped inside, the familiar scent of the house enveloped me—something floral, a blend of soap and aged wood. I paused, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dim light. Everything appeared neat and orderly, as if my mother had meticulously arranged it to feel inviting, yet it felt too pristine, too quiet. A blanket lay folded over the couch, and books were stacked neatly on the coffee table.

“This is home,” she said softly, her voice a gentle caress against the silence.

I nodded, my throat constricting. “It’s… nice.”

We ascended the stairs together, and she opened the door to what she claimed was my room. The walls were painted a pale hue, and the bed was perfectly made. A few items were arranged on the dresser: hair ties, a bottle of pills, a small mirror. I lingered by the door, waiting for some spark of recognition to ignite within me. But nothing came.

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