The morning sun filtered through the dining hall’s wide windows, spreading soft gold across mismatched mugs of herbal tea, half-eaten bowls of oatmeal, and quiet clusters of retreat-goers, some still waking up, some already deep in conversation.
Kingsley sat beside Devon at a corner table, his spoon slowly stirring something he hadn’t touched in ten minutes. Across from them, Katherine and Carolina had only just joined, and while there were smiles—especially between Carolina and Devon—they were the quiet kind. The kind that followed late nights, complicated feelings, and unsaid things.
Kingsley’s gaze brushed against Katherine’s for a second too long. She didn’t look away.
And then the facilitator, a woman named Mena who wore linen like a second skin and always smiled like she knew some
