It didn’t.
She was back on the Continent of the Well. She showered, dressed, and made a cup of coffee. She looked at her reflection. Same face. Same woman. But etched behind her eyes was the quiet knowledge of where she’d been.
She lay on her cool bathroom floor, the tiles pressing against her cheek. This was the ritual now. The bed was too soft, the pillow too plush. The floor was honest. It held her steady while the inside of her head became a war zone. Nausea rose like a tide, and she spent an hour in a cold, clammy truce with her own body, bargaining with a god she didn’t believe in: Just make it stop. Just for an hour. I’ll do anything.