Rain came at dusk.
Not the hard, cleansing kind. The slow, soaking rain that seeps into your bones and makes you remember every mistake you ever tried to bury.
Scarlett stood on the porch, wrapped in an old coat two sizes too big—Alexander's. She hadn't asked for it. He'd just left it on the bench this morning, folded neatly, like he knew she'd need something to hold onto that wasn't a weapon.
Inside, Luna and David were asleep. Damien had vanished again—back to the ruins, or the woods, or whatever liminal space he now called home. The settlement hummed with uneasy calm. Repairs. Replanting. Pretending the world hadn't cracked open twice in one week.
But Scarlett couldn't pretend.
She kept seeing the device in her hand. The way it fit like it was made for her. The way part of her wanted to say yes—not for power, but for peace. For certainty. For mornings where she didn't wake up wondering if today was the day she failed them all.
Footsteps on the gravel path.
She didn't turn.
