VALENTINE
The eggs were perfect. Sunny side up with the yolk still runny, exactly how I liked them. The bacon crisp but not burnt. Toast with just enough butter. My wife had been making my breakfast for many years and she knew every preference, every detail down to the temperature of the coffee.
I cut into the egg and watched the yolk bleed across the plate.
My phone chimed.
I ignored it. Breakfast was a ritual. The one meal of the day where I could sit in silence and eat without thinking about covens or politics or the weight of being head warlock. Just food and coffee and the morning light coming through the kitchen windows.
The phone however chimed again.
I sighed and picked it up. Because it could be important. The screen lit with several message notification. But at the top was Pauline Strati.
