GINA’S POV
Five years ago, if someone had told me I’d be standing here—on this porch, in front of this house—I would have laughed until my ribs ached. Or maybe I would have spat at their feet, my rage burning too hot to hold inside.
But now, as the rain dripped from my hair and soaked into the frayed hem of my jeans, as Bernard’s small body sagged against my shoulder in exhausted sleep, I felt nothing but exhaustion. A deep, unshakable weariness that settled into my bones like lead.
I stared at the wooden door, its familiar grain worn smooth by time, and swallowed hard. The scent of wet earth and old memories clung to the air. My fingers trembled—not from the cold, but from the weight of what I was about to do.
I can’t believe I’m here.
I took a breath—the kind you take before jumping
