The sound was not a single blast, but a deep, groaning roar as the ancient olive tree, a silent witness for centuries, erupted from within. A fireball of chemical-orange and searing white bloomed at its roots, swallowing the gnarled trunk in a single, voracious gulp. The concussion hit the farmhouse like a giant’s fist, shattering the kitchen windows inward in a glittering storm of glass and splintered wood.
Isabella was thrown backward, the journal flying from her hands as she slammed into the far wall. The air was punched from her lungs, replaced by the thick, choking stench of petrol and burnt soil. The photograph of her mother and Sophia fluttered to the floor like a dying leaf.
For a moment, there was only a high-pitched ringing in her ears and the primal, shrieking fear of her moth
