EMMA
The road away from Lune Noire curved like a wound through the forest.
I gripped the steering wheel too tightly, knuckles white, shoulders locked, as if tension alone could keep me upright. Snow fell in thick, lazy spirals, blurring the world into shades of gray and white. The headlights carved a narrow tunnel through it, but everything beyond that felt unreal—like I was driving out of a dream I hadn’t fully woken from.
My chest hurt.
Not metaphorically. Physically.
Each mile put pressure on something deep inside me, a tightening that stole my breath in short, sharp pulls. I pressed my palm flat against my sternum, startled by the intensity of it.
Get a grip, Emma.
This is just heartbreak. Shock. Adrenaline. You’re leaving a place that mattered. Of course it hurts.
But the pain
