Jackson’s P.O.V.
The kitchen smelled like old wood and something lemon-scented. I stood by the counter, watching Eluna knock back her second glass of whiskey with practiced ease. The light caught her profile — fierce, tired, beautiful — and for a wild second, I could almost see a younger version of her in this same kitchen. A flash of a little girl with wild hair and scraped knees, darting between her brothers’ legs while someone yelled about muddy boots and someone else laughed too hard over something dumb.
I could picture it. This place was soaked in memory. And I had no claim to any of it.
I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to keep my thoughts in check. Now wasn’t the time to romanticize things. Now was the time to come up with a plan before our lives got devoured by the Internet.
