The cliff of the gorge lay still, unnervingly so. The world seemed muted—no wind, no rustling of leaves, only the faint echo of rushing water far below. The serenity of the place felt fractured, replaced by a suffocating tension that clung to the air like a storm waiting to break.
Luca was seated at the edge, his gaze fixed downward into the abyss. The shadows swallowed his expression, but his clenched fists trembled faintly at his sides.
What am I feeling? His thoughts churned, restless, directionless. Am I angry? I don't know. Am I supposed to be angry? I don't know. His chest rose and fell heavily, as though breathing itself demanded effort. If I don't feel angry right now, does that mean I've lost all self-respect? That my pride is too fragile?
