The Last Sparks

There was a time when the Wilde house breathed magic. It lived in the way Lucian Wilde would wake gasping from dreams that hadn't happened yet, visions of laughter, of storms, of a funeral wreath dripping with rain. It hummed in the air around Elias, who, as a child, would leap from the porch steps and hang suspended for a heartbeat too long, as if the earth had forgotten to pull him back. It pulsed in Mira's fingertips when she brushed against someone's skin and knew, instantly, if they were lying. But that was before. Before Lucian's visions turned to nightmares he couldn't escape. Before Elias's feet grew heavy, his wings clipped by the weight of expectations. Before Mira stopped touching people altogether. Now, the Wilde house is quiet. The only remnants of their gifts are the echoes, the way Lucian still startles at nothing, the way Elias's shoulders tense as if remembering flight, the way Mira folds her arms tight over her chest, afraid to feel what others hide. And then she arrives. A woman with strom-gray eyes and a smile that doesn't reach them. A woman who knocks on their door one evening, the scent of salt and something electric clinging to her skin. A woman who says, "I think I knew your family. Once." The porch light flickers when she steps inside. Somewhere in the house, a forgotten power stirs