The windows were fogged up again—morning haze clinging like breath on glass. Somewhere outside, citrus drifted in through the cracked pane—sharp, sweet, like someone peeled an orange too close to grief. Oatmeal bubbled on the stove, slow and sour-smelling now. Camille scrubbed a sticky jam jar with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling. The faucet coughed and spat, water lukewarm, her bare feet chilled against the linoleum, like even the floor didn’t want to be warm today.
Ellie was gone—school. Backpack missing from its hook, her unicorn shoes by the door. Adrian was at the hospital again. Fresh shift. Fresh scrubs. Same ache in Camille’s chest. Her heart thudded slow, deep, but her thoughts… they wouldn’t stop cutting.
A trust fund? For Ellie?
I don’t get it—I’m outta my depth here.
Her
