Isla
The soil was still soft under my fingernails, caked beneath the edges of my broken nails as if the earth itself refused to let me forget what I had just done.
We buried her that morning—Mrs. Hawthorne. My teacher. My guide. The last person who knew the truth of what I was becoming. And now, she was gone.
Raul still stood beside me in the quiet garden behind her cottage, his figure a shadow against the backdrop of mist-shrouded trees. He said nothing as we finished covering the shallow grave with a final layer of earth. The silence between us was not cold, but heavy—an anchor sinking deep into my ribs.
I reached out and brushed my hand over the makeshift headstone: a flat piece of stone Raul had carved with his own hands, his jaw clenched so tight I thought it might break. I read
