Monday, I had to see Dr. Hart again. I was disappointed because I wanted to help Lily and Sam with the Castle.

The waiting room smelled faintly of lavender, a soft and clean scent that reminded me of the sachets Mrs. Blake kept in her drawers back at the house. It was quiet except for the occasional rustle of a magazine as the receptionist flipped a page at her desk. I sat in one of the cushioned chairs, my fingers twisting the edge of my scarf as I stared at the clock on the wall. Its slow, steady ticks seemed louder than usual, filling the empty space around me. Each tick felt like a reminder of how much time I was losing.

Dr. Hart's door opened with a gentle creak, and she stepped out, her usual warm smile in place. "Emily, come on in," she said, her voice calm and steady, like always. It was the kind of voice that made you feel like you weren't in trouble, even when you thought you might be.

I stood, clutching the scarf tighter for a moment before letting it drop back around my neck. Her office was the same as I remembered: soft lighting, a small collection of framed photos on her desk, and shelves lined with books that looked well-loved. The air smelled faintly of chamomile tea and something woody, like cedar. The overstuffed armchair in the corner seemed to beckon me, and I sank into it, feeling its familiar embrace. It had become my spot, and even though I didn't want to be there, it felt like the chair did. Like it was waiting for me.

Dr. Hart settled into her own chair across from me, holding a small notebook and pen. She always started the same way, asking a simple question that didn't feel like much but always seemed to open doors I wasn't ready for.

"How have you been, Emily?" she asked, her voice soft but curious. Her eyes were steady and kind, not the kind that made you feel like you were being picked apart, but the kind that made you feel like she was really listening.

I shrugged, my gaze dropping to my hands. "Okay, I guess." My voice sounded smaller than I wanted it to, like it didn't quite match the knot of feelings tangled inside me.

She tilted her head, waiting patiently. Dr. Hart never rushed me. That was part of what made talking to her feel safe, even when the words I had to say weren't easy.

"There was another nightmare," I finally admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. The words felt heavy, like they were pulling something out of me as I said them.

Her expression didn't change. She just nodded, like she already knew and wanted me to go on. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

I took a deep breath, my hands gripping the armrest of the chair. "It was... the same one as before," I began, my voice shaking slightly. "I'm in the house, but it's on fire. The walls are burning, and the smoke is so thick I can't breathe. My Mama's there, yelling at me to clean the house. She's screaming that it's my fault the house is a mess, even though everything is on fire. I'm trying to run, but I can't get away." My voice caught, and I had to force myself to keep going. "And then Trevor and Tasha show up. They're laughing at me, calling me names like they do at school, but their voices are louder, meaner. It's like they're everywhere, and I can't stop hearing them."

Her pen scratched softly against the page as she jotted something down, the sound oddly soothing. "That sounds really frightening," she said after a moment. "Do you remember anything else about it? Any other details that stand out?"

I shook my head. "No. Just that feeling, like I can't escape. It's the same every time."

Dr. Hart leaned forward slightly, her expression thoughtful. "Sometimes nightmares are about more than what we see in them. They can be tied to feelings or memories from our past, even if we don't realize it. Maybe we can explore that a little today. Would you be comfortable telling me about your childhood? What it was like growing up?"

When I was younger, life felt so much simpler. My Papa was the kindest person I knew—always patient, always smiling. His laugh had a way of warming the coldest days, and his voice, a deep rumble like distant thunder, carried stories that made even the ordinary seem extraordinary. I'd spend hours playing outside, the Georgia sun casting long golden rays across the yard. My bare feet would sink into the warm, soft soil as I chased butterflies or picked wildflowers for Mama. Nearby, Papa sat on a worn wooden chair under the shade of the pecan tree, carving intricate shapes from blocks of wood with his trusty knife. The soft scrape of the blade against the grain was like music to me, a rhythmic whisper that became the soundtrack to my childhood.

Inside the house, my Mama kept everything neat and welcoming. She had a way of making the simplest things feel special. The curtains she'd sewn herself fluttered lightly in the breeze, their floral patterns casting delicate shadows on the wooden floor. The air always smelled like home—a blend of fresh-baked bread, lavender from her sachets, and the faint tang of lemon from her cleaning solution. Her cooking was legendary in our little corner of Folkston. The neighbors would stop by just to get a taste of her peach cobbler or chicken and dumplings. I'd watch her in the kitchen, her hands deft and confident as she kneaded dough or stirred a pot, humming an old hymn under her breath.

One of my favorite places to explore was the swamp just beyond our yard. It wasn't the scary kind of swamp people talk about in ghost stories; it was alive and beautiful, teeming with life. I'd catch frogs, their skin cool and slick in my hands, and let them hop away, laughing as they disappeared into the reeds. Dragonflies with shimmering wings darted through the air, and the gentle croak of bullfrogs mixed with the rustling of leaves created a kind of wild symphony. I felt like I was part of that untamed little world, a tiny explorer discovering nature's hidden treasures.

In the evenings, we'd sit together on the porch, the air warm and thick with the scent of lavender and the faint sweetness of magnolias. Papa would pull out his guitar, the strings worn from years of use, and strum a tune that made the fireflies seem to dance in rhythm. His stories were my favorite part. He'd tell me about his own childhood, about the pranks he and his brothers used to play, and about the stars above us. "You see that bright one there?" he'd say, pointing with his knife. "That's Venus, the evening star. Always the first to show up, like it's saying hello to the night."

Mama would join us, her laugh light and free, like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. She'd sip sweet tea from a mason jar, her feet propped up on the porch railing, and sometimes she'd sing along with Papa's guitar. Her voice was soft, but it carried the kind of joy that made you forget everything else. We'd sit there, the three of us, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and light, watching the fireflies blink in the dark. It felt like nothing could touch us, like we were untouchable in our little bubble of happiness.

And the holidays? They were magical. Not in a big, flashy way, but in the quiet, meaningful things we did. My Mama would make her famous pecan pie, the smell of sugar and toasted nuts lingering for hours. She'd let me help sometimes, guiding my clumsy hands as I pressed the crust into the pie dish. Papa would string up a few lights along the porch, just enough to make everything glow softly in the night. "It ain't about how much you put up," he'd say. "It's about how it makes you feel." And he was right. Those simple lights made our home look like something out of a fairy tale.

On cold December nights, we'd gather by the fire, a crackling hearth that filled the room with warmth and the smell of burning wood. I'd sit cross-legged on the rug, sipping hot cocoa from a chipped mug, my marshmallows slowly melting into a creamy swirl. Papa would pull out the old family photo albums, and we'd laugh at the faded pictures of him with a scruffy beard and bell-bottom jeans. "I thought I was somethin' back then," he'd joke, and Mama would roll her eyes, pretending to scold him.

Every moment felt like a gift, wrapped in the golden glow of love and laughter. Back then, I thought it would always be that way. I thought our little world was unshakable, a safe harbor in an uncertain sea. But life has a way of surprising you, of turning even the most steadfast things upside down. Looking back, those days were like a dream, vivid and fleeting, and I hold onto them like treasures, each memory a precious gem shining in the depths of my heart.

I paused, letting the memories settle in the air between us. Dr. Hart leaned back slightly, her pen resting on the notepad in her lap. Her gaze was steady, thoughtful, and kind. The soft ticking of the clock on the wall filled the silence, a steady rhythm that seemed to mark the passage of my hesitation.

"You've been through so much, Emily," she said gently, her voice like the soothing hum of a lullaby. "And it's clear those happy memories mean a lot to you. They're like anchors—a reminder that not everything in your life has been hard."

I nodded, swallowing the lump forming in my throat. My fingers brushed over the edge of the scarf draped around my neck, the familiar texture grounding me slightly. "But the nightmares... they make me feel like I'm still there, like I'll never get away from it."

Dr. Hart's expression softened further, and she leaned forward slightly, her movements deliberate and careful, as though afraid to disrupt the fragile moment. Her pen tapped the notepad gently before she set it aside, resting her hands lightly in her lap. "Nightmares are our mind's way of processing things we can't face when we're awake. They're not meant to punish you, Emily, even though they feel that way. It's your brain trying to make sense of what happened, and sometimes, that process can be messy."

I looked down at my hands, twisting the fabric of my scarf until it felt like I might wring the tension right out of my body. My gaze blurred slightly as tears threatened to spill, but I blinked them away, determined to hold it together. "So how do I make them stop?" My voice cracked slightly, and I hated how small I sounded.

"You might not be able to stop them entirely," she admitted, her tone unwavering yet understanding. "But you can take away some of their power." She shifted in her chair, her hand gesturing gently as she spoke. "Next time you have a nightmare, try to remind yourself that it's not real. I know that's hard in the moment, but grounding yourself in something tangible—like focusing on your breathing or touching something near you—can help you wake up faster."

Her words hung in the air between us, mingling with the faint scent of lavender from the diffuser on the small table beside her chair. My mind turned over the suggestion, uncertain but willing to try anything to keep the nightmares at bay. "Grounding myself..." I echoed, my voice quieter now, as though testing the words for strength.

Dr. Hart nodded encouragingly. "Yes. Sometimes, even repeating a simple phrase like, 'I'm safe,' can help remind you that the nightmare isn't reality. And when you wake up, take a few moments to orient yourself—notice the feel of your bed, the sounds around you, the smell of your room. Little things like that can help you regain control."

Her advice felt practical, like a rope thrown to someone drowning. I clung to it in my mind, imagining how I might pull myself out of the dark waters of my dreams. "Do you think they'll ever stop? The nightmares?"

She paused, her gaze steady, her brow creasing just slightly as though weighing her response. "In time, they may fade. Healing doesn't follow a straight path, Emily. But you're already taking steps forward by talking about it and finding ways to cope. That's incredibly brave."

A tear escaped despite my resolve, tracing a warm path down my cheek. I quickly brushed it away, embarrassed, but Dr. Hart didn't seem to notice—or maybe she pretended not to. Her presence felt steady, unyielding, like a lighthouse in the storm.

The clock ticked again, and for the first time, it didn't feel like a countdown to something ominous but rather a reminder that time was still moving forward—that I was moving forward, too.

She leaned forward slightly, her tone encouraging. "And during the day, try writing about them. Not just what happened in the dream, but how you felt. Sometimes putting those feelings on paper can help you process them differently."

I considered her words, turning them over in my mind. Writing about the nightmares sounded awful, like reliving them on purpose. But maybe... maybe it could help. Maybe it could make them feel less like they owned me.

"And don't forget," Dr. Hart added, her voice firm but kind, "you have people who care about you. Mrs. Blake, Lily, Sam, Jasmine—they're all there for you. You don't have to go through this alone."

Her words settled over me like a blanket, warm and comforting. For the first time in a long while, I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe the nightmares wouldn't always be this overwhelming. Maybe I could find a way to take back control.

"Thanks, Dr. Hart," I said quietly, managing a small smile. "I'll try."

She nodded, her own smile reassuring. "That's all I ask, Emily. Take it one step at a time. You're stronger than you think."

The car hummed softly as we drove through the snowy streets, the tires crunching against the packed snow. Outside, the world was painted in shades of white and silver, the winter landscape stretching endlessly under the pale orange glow of the setting sun. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the air, catching the last light of the day before settling onto rooftops and tree branches. I stared out the window, watching them swirl, feeling that strange mix of nervousness and calm that had been following me for days now.

Adoption day was almost a week away. Just nine more days, and everything would change.

Mrs. Blake glanced at me from the driver's seat, her hands steady on the wheel, her expression as warm as the heater blowing softly through the vents. "How did it go with Dr. Hart?" she asked gently.

I shrugged, still playing with the edge of my scarf, twisting the fabric between my fingers. "It was good," I said quietly. "She gave me some ideas to help with the nightmares."

Mrs. Blake nodded, her smile reassuring. "That's good to hear. I know how hard they've been for you."

The warmth in her voice made something tighten in my chest, and I swallowed against the lump forming in my throat.

For weeks now, I'd been thinking about it—wondering if I could say it out loud, wondering if it would feel right if I did. Adoption day was so close, just a few days away, and tomorrow was New Year's Eve. It felt like a turning point, like everything I'd been waiting for was just within reach.

I hesitated, my fingers tightening around the fabric in my lap. Now or never.

"I..." I started, but my voice caught. I took a slow breath and tried again. "I just wanted to say thank you."

Mrs. Blake's head turned slightly at my words, her eyes flicking toward me before refocusing on the road. "For what?" she asked gently, as if she already knew but wanted me to say it anyway.

"For... everything," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. "For taking me in. For caring about me. For—" I broke off, shaking my head. "I don't know. Just... for making me feel like I belong somewhere."

A silence stretched between us—not heavy or uncomfortable, but full of meaning.

Then, she reached over and placed a warm hand over mine, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Emily, you've always belonged," she said softly. "And you always will."

Her words settled over me like a blanket, warm and steady, wrapping around the parts of me that had always felt lost and untethered.

I let out a slow, shaky breath, feeling lighter somehow, as if I'd finally allowed myself to believe it.

"It feels like adoption day is so far away," I admitted, my voice quieter now, almost afraid to let the words slip past my lips.

Mrs. Blake smiled, giving my hand one last squeeze before placing both hands back on the wheel. "I know it feels that way," she said, her voice laced with quiet excitement. "But it's just around the corner. And in the meantime, we've got New Year's Eve tomorrow."

She glanced at me again, this time with a playful glint in her eyes. "I was thinking we could all celebrate together. Maybe watch a movie, play some games?"

Her enthusiasm was contagious, and despite the emotions still swirling inside me, I found myself nodding. "That sounds fun."

Mrs. Blake's smile widened. "Good. I think it'll be nice to welcome the new year together. A fresh start."

A fresh start.

The words echoed in my mind, and I turned my gaze back to the snow-covered streets as we drove on, letting them settle deep into my heart.

A fresh start.

That's exactly what I needed.

The house smelled faintly of cinnamon when we walked in, the warmth of the heater greeting us like a hug. Lily and Sam were in the living room, arguing over which board game to play.

"Hi, Mom! Hi, Emily!" Lily called, waving enthusiastically. Her excitement made me smile.

Mrs. Blake set her bag down and turned to me. "Go ahead and get comfortable, Emily. Dinner will be ready soon."

I nodded, heading up to my room. As I passed the hallway mirror, I caught a glimpse of myself, my reflection framed by the soft light of the house. I looked... different. Stronger, maybe. More sure of who I was.

When I reached my room, I glanced at the flag on the wall, the colors bright and steady. Adoption day might still be a week away, but tomorrow was New Year's Eve, a chance to celebrate a new beginning with the Blakes.