The morning comes too soon.
Soft.
Deceptive.
Too peaceful for a world that just burned.
I sit on the porch beside Shianne, a mug of coffee cooling in my hands. The sun filters through the pines, painting everything gold and green—like nothing happened.
Like we didn’t lose people.
Like Kira didn’t die.
Like a child isn’t sleeping upstairs after watching his mother fall.
For a second—
just one—
I almost let myself believe it.
Almost.
Shianne hasn’t spoken in twenty minutes.
She stares into her coffee like it might answer something. Her fingers are wrapped too tight around the ceramic.
I know who she’s thinking about.
Kira.
The grief rolls off her in waves—thick, suffocating, sharp enough to cut.
I want to say something.
Anything.
But there’s nothing I can say that doesn’t
