The morning after Callen’s death was too quiet.
Orla sat at the kitchen table, a mug of untouched coffee between her hands, as the hum of the refrigerator buzzed softly through the apartment. Outside, the city remained indifferent. Horns. Sirens. Rain on concrete.
But inside, it felt like time had stopped.
Stanley hadn’t spoken much since the rooftop. He hadn’t slept, either — not really. She could feel it in him, this constant churn, like he was waiting for the ghost of his brother to reappear in the mirror.
She didn’t push him.
Instead, she waited.
Until he finally emerged from the bedroom, barefoot and shirtless, his eyes bruised with exhaustion.
“You’re not okay,” she said softly.
He didn’t deny it. Just sat down across from her and reached for the cold coffee.
“I thought it w
