Tommy’s eyes, unfocused and empty, fix on the floor. The world’s gone quiet around him. He can hear the dull, rhythmic thumping outside the door, echoes like war drums in his skull, though he knows there’s nothing there. No one there. Just ghosts, playing games again.

And just like that, he's back in the mine. That godforsaken pit. Dirt in his lungs, blood in his mouth, legs twitching with each step like the fear's still got him by the throat. Every breath tastes like coal dust and dread.

He blinks once.

He’s in his bedroom. The moonlight is streaming through the window. The wood beneath his feet feels solid and stable. It's cold tonight, and the chill makes the hair at the back of his neck stand up.

Still here. Still breathing. But not out of it, not yet. Not ever.