April's pov
The sun was beginning to dip when I arrived in Newark. It cast a golden hue across the tree-lined streets, turning the world into a watercolor painting of shadows and light. The elderly home stood at the very edge of town, nestled between soft hills and a grove of whispering pine trees. It was the kind of place that felt untouched by time—quiet, serene, and humming with an almost sacred stillness. A world separate from the one I came from.
The building itself was modest—pale stone walls, ivy crawling gently up one side, and a small, wooden sign that read: Hillpine Rest. A name that sounded too peaceful for the grief and fear curling in my chest.
Inside, the faint scent of lavender mingled with something sterile—medicine, maybe, or antiseptic. I made my way to the reception
