“She said they were special,” Elijah murmured now, touching the wrapper as if it were treasure.
“She said she made them for her favorite person,” Caleb added softly.
I remembered it too—the way she had explained in her careful child’s voice that the herbs would make the candy last longer, that whoever ate it would carry the scent with them always.
The candies on the table were the same. Myra’s.
The air left my lungs. Vincent’s call echoed in my head. Myra wanted to give the candy to the “pretty aunt.” To me.
Guilt surged, hot and sharp. I had refused. I had walked away when she only wanted to share something she had made with her own hands.
I pressed my palm flat on the table to steady myself. “Eat,” I said too briskly. “They’re just sweets.”
But inside, I burned.
To distract the b
