The silk of my cloak scraped against my skin with every step, a subtle but constant irritation that mirrored the turmoil knotting my chest. It should have been smooth, luxurious, soft like the touch of someone who cared—but against my nerves, it felt coarse, grating, an unwelcome reminder of how uneasy I truly was. My fingers kept brushing over it, as though smoothing the folds might also smooth the chaos within me. Yet the trembling betrayed me—quiet, insistent, and entirely uncontrollable.
Since sunrise, I had been hunting a ghost. Reagan had become an artful specter, always just beyond reach. A dark coat flickering around a corner, the faint tang of cedar and wet stone lingering in a deserted breakfast nook, the abrupt click of a door before I could touch the handle—all traces of him t
