Medusa and Aleysia slept for an entire day after returning to Longyearbyen. Their home, nestled in the white silence of the Arctic outskirts, is a darkened haven where even the pale northern daylight couldn't reach past the thick blackout curtains. It's almost winter, but the snow come earlier.
The snow drifted quietly against the windows. Inside, the fireplace burned low, casting an amber glow over the fur throws and velvet cushions where two women lay entangled in exhausted slumber. They didn't stir when Whitney knocked, and they didn't flinch when Bernard gently creaked open their bedroom door to check if they were alright.
They didn't react at all, except for the slow, synchronized rise and fall of their chests, tangled together beneath a heavy quilt, their limbs woven with the familiarity of two women who had clung to each other through something unspeakable.
