The city outside hummed like a living thing — restless, glowing, unaware of the quiet storm unraveling behind Henry's high-rise windows. Through sheer curtains, the skyline blinked in and out like a constellation too close to earth. Soft, fractured light spilled across the polished floors, catching on the silver zippers of half-packed suitcases and the crumpled boarding passes resting on the coffee table.
Eliana Bennett lay awake in the guest bedroom, her body a tense silhouette against the sheets. The blanket barely warmed her; it only tangled around her legs as if mocking her stillness. Her skin, a warm shade of caramel kissed by insomnia's pale blue glow, reflected the light from her phone screen. 2:17 AM. Then 3:03. Then 3:45. Time refused to move the way she wanted—it dragged, stretched, and sneered at her as each minute passed without peace.
She could still hear James's voice from earlier, sharp with worry and laced with something darker—pity.
