LYRA’S POV
My feet burned with a dull, throbbing ache that pulsed all the way up my calves as I unlocked the front door of my parents’ modest house.
It was past two in the morning. The quiet of the neighborhood wrapped around me like a damp blanket, heavy with the salty coastal fog drifting off the Pacific. I slipped inside, closing the door as gently as possible to avoid waking my parents, who were already asleep after another long day of trying to piece our lives back together.
The faint smell of grease, stale beer, and cheap coffee clung to the fabric of my apron. Working the late-night shift at The Rusty Spoke was exhausting, but every dollar in tips went straight into the jar on our kitchen counter. Between my father’s reduced wages at his new position and the relentless cost of li
