April 20, 2026.
Saturday evening.
The house smelled like chicken parmesan—Mia’s favorite since she was ten.
Damien had cooked it himself. Slowly. Carefully.
Like if he got it right, everything else might follow.
I helped set the table.
Three places.
Wine for us.
Sparkling water for Mia—she was driving.
We waited.
6:00 p.m. came and went.
6:15.
6:30.
Damien paced the kitchen.
I sat at the island, twisting the star necklace.
At 6:42, headlights swept the driveway.
Car door.
Footsteps.
The door opened.
Mia stepped in.
Coat on. Bag over shoulder.
She looked at us.
We looked at her.
No one spoke.
She closed the door.
Hung her coat.
Walked to the table.
Sat.
We sat too.
Damien across from her.
Me beside him.
Food steamed between us.
Mia picked up her fork.
Took a
