Myra
Raphael Segretto didn't just walk into a room; he owned the molecular structure of the air within it. He stood at the head of the modest table, looking down at the basket I had unveiled. The scent of the banana bread and the tart, bright aroma of the raspberries seemed to hang in the air between us, a humble offering from a world far removed from his.
He reached out, his fingers—long and steady—picking up a small sample of the banana bread. He took a bite, his expression unreadable as he chewed. The silence in the room was absolute, save for the distant, muffled laughter of the children in the hallway.
"Delicious," he said, the word vibrating in his chest. He looked at me, those whiskey-colored eyes sharp and discerning. "It reminds me of my mother’s cooking. You're right, Ms. Higg
