The fourth day of the quiet felt heavier than the first. By Thursday, the novelty of the secret house had begun to wear thin, replaced by a dull, aching vacuum. Briar had established a rhythm: wake up in the jade green room, press her face into the fading scent of Victor’s pillow, drive down the ridge to play the part of the local baker, and return to her home before the sun dipped low enough for neighbors to wonder where she was going.
The dog tags were a permanent fixture beneath her clothes, a cold anchor against her skin. They were the only things that felt real. The bakery, the bread, the pleasantries- it was all just theater.
The bell above the door chimed at 10:15 AM, a slow time between the morning coffee rush and the lunch-hour sandwich crowd. Briar was at the prep station, h
