CIARA'S POV
The vision hadn't faded. Not even after two glasses of water and another bite of food. It stayed right behind my eyes, flickering like a cruel memory that hadn't happened yet.
Darragh. Screaming my name.
A gun.
A bullet tearing through his head.
Blood. So much of it.
I didn't know guns well, but it looked small. Sleek. A pistol, maybe. I remembered the rain too—cold, heavy, soaking through our clothes like it had a personal grudge. And then… a hand.
Not a face.
Just a hand.
And the tattoo burned itself into my memory like it had been etched there too. A tree—dark and jagged—splitting into the earth like it was clawing its way down.
The restaurant buzzed around me—cutlery clinking against plates, laughter rising and falling like waves. I pushed the food around my plate
