A Glimmer of Hope

The air in the small, sterile room felt thick with an unspoken dread, a palpable residue of the terror Sarah Jenkins had endured. Miles Corbin sat opposite her, his gaze steady, not prying, but offering a silent anchor in the storm of her fragmented recollections. He’d seen trauma before, etched into faces like ancient maps, but Sarah’s was raw, a fresh wound still bleeding. Her eyes, once bright and full of life, now darted around the room, catching on shadows that weren’t there, flinching at sounds that were merely the hum of the fluorescent lights.

“It’s alright, Sarah,” Miles said, his voice a low rumble, designed to soothe rather than intrude. “Take your time. Just tell me what you remember, when you’re ready.” He gestured to the lukewarm tea on the small table between them, a silent offering of comfort.

Sarah clutched the mug with trembling hands, her knuckles white. A shudder ran through her. “It… it was dark,” she whispered, her voice raspy. “So dark. And cold. Like being buried alive.” She squeezed her eyes shut, and Miles saw a flicker of pain cross her face. “He… he was there. Not a shadow, not a monster… but a man.”