EMMA'S POV
The rain arrived without ceremony, a soft, persistent curtain against the glass that blurred the city into watercolor smears of gray and gold. I stood at the window of my studio long after midnight, barefoot on the cool concrete floor, watching the drops trace slow, uneven paths downward. It should have been soothing. Normally, it would have been. But tonight, the rain felt like a held breath.
Behind me, the apartment was quiet in that specific way that only happens when Damian wasn't home yet. Not empty—never empty—but paused. As if the walls themselves were listening.
