Emma
The quiet afterward was almost worse than the noise.
When the boots and shouting and distant gunfire finally faded, they left a vacuum behind—a silence so thick it pressed against my ears, my lungs, my skull. The tiny storage room seemed to shrink around me. Dust floated through the sliver of light from the high, grimy window. My breath came in shallow pulls that didn’t feel like enough.
I slid down the wall until I hit the floor, knees bent, arms wrapped around them so tight it hurt.
Brandon’s face wouldn’t leave my head.
Not the version in suits and polished shoes, smiling across a restaurant table. Not the one who’d kissed my forehead when I talked about maybe, someday, wanting a real Christmas.
The one holding a silver sword.
The one who looked at me like I was a problem to
