The Apology That Broke Us
The storm hadn't let up. It screamed against the walls, slamming wind into the shuttered windows so hard the wood shuddered. Rain pounded the cliffs outside like it was trying to carve them down to bone. There was something ancient in it, like a curse still being spoken. And yet, inside—inside this house of thick stone and old timber—a fragile warmth clung to the air. Barely there. But it didn't let go.
Lanterns hummed low along the walls, casting soft halos against the beams and laying gold across the worn floorboards. The scent of meat stew, warm rice, and crushed herbs drifted through the hall—faint, but steady. Comfort, somehow. A whisper that they were still alive. For people who'd been soaked in fire and blood hours earlier, it was enough. Just enough to breathe.
