The cicadas had grown louder with the heat of late summer, their ancient song filling the evenings like a chorus that refused to end. The sound rose and fell in waves across the vineyard, a primal rhythm that seemed to emerge from the earth itself, pulsing with the heartbeat of the season. Lila sat on the porch steps, her bare feet flat against the weathered boards, knees tucked to her chest in a position that had become second nature over the years—protective without being obvious, ready without seeming anxious.
The vineyard loomed before her in neat, long rows laden with grapes that glistened in the last of the light like black jewels. The promise of harvest hung heavy on each vine, and the soft rustle of the leaves in the evening breeze created a canopy of green. The smell of ripening
