Orla hadn’t slept.
Even with the fire dead and the diary gone, the words still burned behind her eyes.
She remembered Leah’s body in the water. The screaming. The look in her mother’s face when she’d been pulled away. The blank space in her own memory afterward — now splintering open like glass under pressure.
Clara had known. Of course she had.
She didn’t just want Orla to remember—she wanted her to own it.
And now, Elias was watching her like she was the beginning and end of something only he could understand.
Downstairs, Elias stood in the kitchen barefoot, whispering something to himself.
Jakob watched from the doorway.
“You’re talking to her again,” he said.
Elias didn’t look startled. “She said it’s almost time.”
Jakob stepped closer. “Time for what?”
Elias finally turned,
