Abbie woke to the smell of coffee.
Not instant, real coffee. Strong, dark, bitter. The kind Nana Sela used to brew on lazy Sunday mornings back home. For a split second, her chest loosened, memory warming her from the inside out. Then came the sound that didn’t belong to Bicol.
A low male voice. The hum of a TV.
Her eyes snapped open.
The clock read 7:12 a.m. Roxanne was already gone, early classes on Tuesdays, of course. Roxanne always moved through life like a sigh: soft, graceful, careful not to disturb the air around her. The kind of woman who looked like she’d been born holding a teacup.
Abbie was none of that.She was noise in sneakers. Volume turned all the way up.
Which meant whoever was in the living room couldn’t be her sister.
Her pulse kicked hard. She grabbed the nearest
