"She's not just my sister anymore."
Magnolia's voice echoed through the stone hall, hollow and bare. She stood at the long glass window near the east tower, watching as the estate's outer lights flickered against the trees. Behind her, Rhett didn't speak. Not yet. He knew better than to fill silence with comfort that wouldn't land.
"She used to paint fireflies," Magnolia continued, her voice softer now, like it belonged to someone else. "Said they made her feel safe. She'd catch them in jars, then cry when they stopped glowing. But she still did it. Every time. Like part of her didn't know it would end the same way."
"You think this is ending the same way?" Rhett asked.
Magnolia turned, her face unreadable. "I think I stopped being the jar a long time ago."
Rhett crossed the space between them and stood close, close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin, but not close enough to touch. "You don't have to carry the weight of what she's becoming alone."
"She's my blood."
