They stayed in the kitchen long after the tea went cold. The letter sat between them on the marble island, edges smoothed and re-smoothed under Celeste’s fingers until the paper looked worn in the way secrets always did.
Damien stood across from her, sleeves pushed up, eyes steady, no businessman’s armor now, just the man who’d watched her break and rebuild too many times to count.
Celeste pushed her mug away, leaned her elbows on the counter, and let out a breath. “You know what bothers me most? That Lila thought she had to disappear to be safe.”
Damien’s brow creased, but he didn’t interrupt.
She pressed on, voice low but gaining its edge. “I keep thinking about all the ones who never even wrote the letter. How many are out there, carrying it like it’s their shame. Ghosts in this bus
