𝐀𝐔𝐑𝐎𝐑𝐀
Click.
I continued to sit in the grass, tracing the uneven edges of the cake. My fingers hovered over the silver berries. After a moment's hesitation, I cut four neat, small pieces, placing them on the edge of the wooden table.
I decided to be better than they were. Their awkward dance of contrition had been going on for weeks now, an exhausting display of eggshell-walking and silent pleas. I knew with absolute certainty that their groveling would never be enough—it could never erase the puncture wounds of the scars or the cold weight of the lies they believed—but I could at least grant them this small, bitter concession. I gestured faintly toward the table, offering the cake on my own terms.
Before any of them could step forward, the temperature dropped to an absolute freeze.
