Cierra:
The morning came in on wet feet—grey and soft and smelling like the storm’s promise had settled into the soil. The storm had raged so violently through the night that I half-expected to wake to splintered fences and broken branches scattered like bones across the yard. But the land always seemed to heal faster than I did.
The air was clean, crisp, and carried the iron-cold scent of lightning that lingered like a memory long after the thunder was gone.
I sat at the window with my knees drawn up, the wool of my sweater brushing my chin. The kettle hadn’t yet boiled in the kitchen. Somewhere in the house, Natalie’s quiet footsteps moved like threads weaving into walls, steadying me just by existing. Dominic hadn’t slept—I’d felt him shift outside my door, an anchor I wasn’t ready
