Amara’s POV
The bus to Philadelphia smelled of wet wool and industrial floor wax, a sensory assault that grounded me in the harsh reality of our flight. I sat in the penultimate row, the engine’s vibration rattling through the soles of my boots. Noah was slumped against my side, his small head bobbing with every pothole the driver hit. He was clutching his backpack—the one containing his rock collection and a single, battered picture book—as if it were the only tether he had left to the world.
He didn't ask why we had left the cottage. He didn't ask why Mommy’s hands were shaking as she shoved clothes into duffel bags. At five, Noah possessed a terrifyingly intuitive grasp of shadows. He knew when the "Invisible Game" became real.
"Mom?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the r
