When we reached the hotel, she was sleeping—deep, heavy sleep, the kind where the world could burn and you wouldn’t wake up. Her head leaned against the window, her mouth slightly open, snoring softly. For a second, I didn’t move. I just watched her. All that pain, all that fear… and now she slept like a child. My chest tightened. I got out of the car, walked around, and opened the door. Carefully, I lifted her in my arms. She didn’t stir. Her body was completely loose, soft, almost weightless. Maybe it was the first time in months she felt safe. I didn’t know. But I didn’t want to break that moment.