Amara’s POV
The Port Authority Bus Terminal was a cathedral of broken dreams, smelling of stale coffee, diesel fumes, and the damp wool of a thousand strangers. It was the perfect place to disappear.
I pulled my hood lower, the cheap fabric scratching against my forehead. My hand was clamped tight over the handle of a duffel bag I’d bought for ten dollars at a corner bodega. Inside were two changes of clothes, my father’s old sewing kit, and the ultrasound photo that felt like a burning coal against my ribs.
I was no longer Amara Wolfe. I wasn't even Amara Vance. I was just a girl in a grey hoodie, one of the hundreds of faceless souls trying to get out of New York before the city swallowed them whole.
My stomach cramped—a sharp, twisting reminder of the life I was carrying. Hold on, I
