Myra
The drive back to the village was a study in silence. The truck’s heater was blasting, but the warmth felt artificial—a dry, plastic heat that did nothing to thaw the sudden chill settling between the seats. Tony kept his eyes fixed on the narrow tunnel of the headlights, his hands steady on the wheel at ten and two. His jaw was set in a hard, clean line, a silhouette of granite against the swirling white outside. He didn't look like a man who had just dismantled my defenses; he looked like a man who had already moved on to the next task on his list.
It was nearly midnight when we pulled into the alley behind the bakery. The village was a tomb of white, the streetlamps dark, the only sign of life the distant, rhythmic thrum of the "Old Beast" in the basement. I could feel the vibrat
