Hope
The dining hall looked the same.
Same long table. Same low murmur of voices. Same clink of plates and silverware and the quiet rhythm of routine.
Hope sat in her usual place, hands folded in her lap, posture straight. Across the table, Chance laughed at something Gabriel said, his expression easy, familiar.
And she felt nothing.
Not the warmth she’d felt beyond the boundary.
Not the quiet certainty.
Not even the faint hum Ember had offered her since that night.
Just… absence.
Hope stared down at her plate, appetite gone. This was the cruelest part — sitting here, so close to him, close enough to smell his soap and the faint trace of pine that always clung to him — and feeling as though there was a wall between them she couldn’t see.
She swallowed hard.
This isn’t fair.
Joy
