The morning mist seeped through the window frames, settling into the cottage like a heavy secret.
I sat at the kitchen table, my coffee cold, staring at Leo’s leg.
Two days ago, he had cut his shin on a jagged piece of slate. It was deep. Angry. I had braced myself for a week of tears.
But then Caleb had touched him.
I remembered the heat radiating from his hand when he fixed the sink.
I pulled back the edge of Leo's onesie.
"Impossible," I breathed.
The skin was smooth. Perfect. No scab. No scar. It was as if the injury had never happened.
My chef’s brain—trained in the brutal reality of burns and cuts—rebelled. Human bodies didn't heal in thirty-six hours.
"What did he do to you, Leo?" I whispered.
Leo just giggled and banged his spoon.
I stood up, pacing the narrow
