Anna's POV
The porch swing creaks softly beneath me, a slow, uneven rhythm that matches the quiet ache in my chest.
Night has settled in gently, the air cool enough to raise goosebumps on my arms. The house behind me glows with warm light, but I can’t bring myself to go inside yet. Everything in there feels too full—too many questions, too much concern hovering just beneath polite silence.
Out here, at least, I can breathe.
I stare out at the street, at the familiar row of houses and the amber glow of the streetlamps. My hands rest limp in my lap, paint-stained cuticles scrubbed raw but still stubbornly marked with color. No matter how hard I tried, the pigment wouldn’t come off completely.
Maybe that’s fitting.
Footsteps approach from the sidewalk—unhurried, deliberate. I don’t turn
