At home, the smell of fried onions and garlic hung in the air—a scent that usually evoked comfort in me. Today, it settled like a heavy cloth across my chest. The steps from the school gate still echoed within me, Alaric's wordless gesture of pulling the hood over my head—like a silent promise I couldn't quite place.
The front door fell shut behind me, dull and final. In the hallway, Tom's soccer ball leaned awkwardly against the wall, his shin guard half-hanging out of the bag. A detail from a normal world, where everything should be simple. I hung my jacket on the hook and pushed my backpack into the corner. The weight of the paper bag with the photos remained at my side, as if it had a will of its own. The rustling of the paper sounded like a quiet admonition.
"There you are."
