Jason's POV
The Director of the Historical Society was still droning on, his voice a monotonous hum against the backdrop of clinking crystal and the suffocating scent of lilies. He was speaking about legacy, about the "generosity of the city’s pillars," but all I could focus on was the empty chair to my right.
The midnight-blue silk was gone. The space where Sarah should have been—shining, compliant, and perfectly restored—was a void that seemed to pull the oxygen out of the room.
I took a slow sip of the vintage Bordeaux, the tart liquid coating my tongue. My hand was steady, but I could feel the familiar heat beginning to prickle at the back of my neck. I looked down at my Patek Philippe. The gold hands seemed to be moving too fast, or perhaps too slow. I didn't actually know how long
