A low wind stirred outside, slipping through the cracks of the cottage like it belonged there. The wooden shutters trembled. Aria stood in the center of her living room, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. She hadn’t turned on the heater. The chill matched her mood.
Boxes lined the floor.
Not many. She didn’t own much.
A few medical journals, her mother’s shawl, a half-filled jar of thyme she never used but couldn’t throw away. She wrapped everything slowly, her movements careful, like she was packing memories, not things.
Each item she touched brought a quiet ache. Not grief—she’d already grieved. This was something softer. A final sorting of what she could take and what she had to leave behind. A decision with every fold, every tie of string.
She m
