35
CIRO The smoke from my cigar curled lazily toward the ceiling, a faint ghost of grey that blurred the silver light streaming through the tall windows of my bedroom. The room smelled of burnt tobacco, leather, and faint traces of the cologne Sullivan always wore—something sharp and sweet, like honey poured over gunpowder. A scent that was uniquely him. But other things weighed heavily on my mind right now as I took another drag from the cigarette as I watched the garden from the open windows. Despite how beautiful the scene before me looked, my ears were still ringing with the distressing call I just ended moments ago. Yet another family pulling away. Another betrayal. I pinched the bridge of my nose and exhaled slowly, the weight of decades pressing down on my shoulders like a demon I
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