Freya
The soft patter of rain on the windshield filled the car as I pulled away from the curb, my daughter already buckled into the backseat.
I caught sight of Isabella in the rearview mirror, her small fingers flying across her phone screen. She was messaging someone—Aurora, undoubtedly.
After a moment, Isabella's face lit up with relief at whatever reply she received. "She just has a cold," my daughter murmured to herself, though my enhanced hearing caught every word. "It's not serious."
Even through the phone, I could detect the hoarseness in Aurora's voice. My daughter's brow furrowed with concern—a look she rarely showed for me these days. I watched as she quickly typed another message, her fingers hesitating briefly before hitting send.
I knew what she'd written with
