Amy sat cross-legged on the worn rug of her parents' living room, the afternoon light filtering through dusty curtains to cast golden pools across the floor. The book in her lap, its pages thick with illustrations of herbs and their properties, felt like a lifeline as she traced a finger over the detailed drawings of nightshade and mandrake. "I am always interested in reading books," she murmured to herself, the words a quiet anchor against the hollow ache in her chest, "because it is something that can make me forget my feelings of sadness and loneliness and I also like to increase my knowledge and skills." The scent of old paper mingled with the faint lavender from her mother's favorite throw pillows, stirring memories of laughter echoing through these same walls—her father's booming voice during holiday dinners, her mother's gentle hands braiding her hair while sharing stories of ancient remedies passed down through generations.

Those warm family flashbacks dissolved into the sharp reality of that rainy night a year ago, when the phone call shattered everything. Her parents had been driving home from a weekend trip, their car skidding on slick roads, and in an instant, the vibrant home became an empty shell. Amy, just nineteen, found herself alone amid the silence, the weight of grief pressing down like a physical force, leaving her curled in bed for weeks with only the distant hum of the refrigerator for company. Isolation wrapped around her like a second skin, each day blurring into the next as she wandered the house, touching familiar objects that now carried only echoes of what was lost.

Yet the books called to her from the shelves her mother had lovingly stocked, pulling her from the depths with promises of distraction and discovery. She flipped another page, the paper rustling softly under her fingertips, and felt the first faint spark of something like purpose stirring within her as she absorbed facts about botanicals and their potent effects.

Venomous Awakening