The next day came with the same heaviness pressing against my chest.
I didn’t know why I came. Maybe it was duty. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was because once I’d agreed to something, I couldn’t stand the thought of backing out. Whatever it was, here I was again, standing in front of the wrought-iron gates that framed Damian Moretti’s house like a warning.
The place loomed larger than yesterday, though nothing about it had changed. The hedges still curved into perfect symmetry, the windows still glinted in the sunlight, and the gravel path still stretched like a polished scar leading straight to the front door.
It wasn’t the house that felt different. It was me.
I clutched the books tighter to my chest, the corners digging into my ribs. My palms were damp despite the cool afternoon br
