~ Amara ~
The library at Moore Crest was the only room that didn't make me feel like I was trespassing. It was a vast, circular space with floor-to-ceiling shelves and a rolling ladder that creaked in a way that reminded me of home. Most days, I hid here to avoid Maribel’s judgmental stares and the suffocating silence of the guest wing.
Today, I had pushed the heavy mahogany table near the window. I needed the light. In my hands, I held a charcoal pencil, its tip worn down to a nub. Before me sat a canvas I’d smuggled in from my last visit to Noah’s place.
I started with the outline of a truck. Not the sleek, silver ones the Moores owned, but the dented, reliable K-Logistics rigs that used to fill our driveway. My hand shook slightly as I tried to capture the specific way the paint peel
