Morning came wrapped in gray. Mist clung to the hills, softening the edges of everything, even the wreckage of the safehouse behind me. Smoke still rose from the blackened roof; the smell of gunpowder hung heavy in the air. I stood in the doorway for a long time, fingers tracing the splintered frame, and whispered a name the wind carried away—"Rafael."
His note was folded in my jacket pocket. Don't follow me. It's safer this way.
Every time I read it, the words bruised me a little deeper.
The car started with a cough. I kept my eyes on the road, not the rear-view mirror. Trees blurred past, their branches dripping rain. My reflection looked like a stranger's—pale, eyes rimmed red, lips pressed tight as if holding back everything that might break me apart.
The highway curved toward the coast, a narrow ribbon between cliffs and forest. The sea appeared hours later, sudden and endless, a sheet of steel under a bruised sky. The first breath of salt air stung my throat.
