LATER THAT EVENING
Zara sat in the garden gazebo, her legs curled beneath her, a fleece throw across her lap. The sky was darkening, but her mind was already drowning—drowning in the residue of Ethan's rage, the slap of embarrassment, and the dense, unspoken tension that had filled Kendrick's living room after.
She tried to lose herself in a book.
The Porcelain Mask.
The story of Kaka was anything but soft. Reading it was like peeling off old bandages. Each chapter opened a new wound, each paragraph bled.
And yet, somehow, it helped. Helped her stay rooted. Helped her not spiral.
She had been reading it slowly over the past few days, but tonight she was nearing the end. Her fingers trembled slightly as they turned each page, already mourning the inevitable goodbye.
The woman in the story—Kaka—was no heroine by traditional standards. Her life was a dark mosaic of trauma and survival.
She had killed someone before fourteen.
