Rain hadn't fallen in Silver Creek for seventeen days.
Not because the sky was clear—it wasn't. Clouds hung low and bruised, swollen with static, but every drop evaporated six inches above the trees, as if the air itself refused to let anything land softly.
Kai stood on the back porch, barefoot on wet wood that shouldn't have been wet at all. He watched Luna through the kitchen window. She sat at the table, head in her hands, tracing the last line of that strange drawing over and over like a prayer.
She hadn't slept in two nights.
He knew. He'd been listening outside her door both times.
"You're gonna wear a hole in that paper," he said, stepping inside.
Luna didn't look up. "It's not the paper I'm worried about."
He poured coffee—black, no sugar, just how she liked it when she was trying not to feel anything—and set it beside her. His hand brushed hers. Cold.
"You're burning yourself out," he said quietly.
