The small box sat there like it was mocking her. Still sealed. Still staring. Edges worn like it’d been held too many times, like regret had fingerprints. That stupid handwriting—“For Camille, from Ellen”—glinted in the low light, bold like it meant something. Camille’s chest thudded hard, painful, like her heart wanted out. Her palms were sweaty, slipping on the couch’s fabric that smelled like soup and old tears. The apartment buzzed with the quiet—too quiet. The kind that made you twitch.
Crickets chirped somewhere outside. The night air carried that eucalyptus thing—clean, but fake. Too much like foster homes trying to smell like family. Ellie’s crayons were all over the place, scattered like someone threw a party and forgot to invite joy. Her unicorn drawing crooked on the fridge, wa
