My hand curled on the countertop before I could stop it.
Composure is a discipline. I practice it the way other people practice sword forms—spine straight, voice level, breath measured. But when Stella said Mom and looked at Rose like she'd been handed the sun, something inside my chest slipped a notch and pulled tight.
Childish, I told myself. I am twenty-six. I know the arithmetic of love; it isn't subtraction. I've been the one with the time these past months—homework and hair, nightlights and soup, the hard hour after bad dreams. Rei when she runs out of breath. I logged her medicines, color-coded her study sheets, put socks back in pairs. I know the ward's midnight hum and the weight of her head when she is pretending not to be sleepy. None of that changes because Rose asked a brave, simple question first.
It still hurt.
