Brielle’s POV
The knock at my dorm door came just after sunset, a soft, uncertain sound that didn't belong to someone confident or familiar. I sat on my bed, legs curled beneath me, laptop warm on my thighs, emails half-written and forgotten.
I knew who it was before I opened the door. A strange part of me had been waiting for her—for days, maybe years.
Fiona Mitchell stood in the hallway, her trench coat still buttoned, her hair tied back in a way that made her look smaller than usual, like she was shrinking into herself.
“Hi,” she said.
It wasn’t a mother’s voice. It was the voice of someone who didn’t know where she stood in the room—or in my life.
I stared at her for a long beat. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know,” she said, eyes flicking to the side like she expected someone to
