Rook nudges my hand incessantly, and I glance down at him. He stares up at me like he’s already decided we’re moving.
“You’re right,” I murmur. “We should walk.”
He takes off down the steps immediately, as if he’s been waiting for permission I didn’t realize I’d given.
The path around the property isn’t defined, but it’s worn instead, shaped by movement over time, by people and animals choosing the same direction often enough that the ground remembers it.
I step into it without thinking, letting my feet follow where it leads. Rook sticks close, pausing every few feet to sniff, to check, to confirm that everything is still where it’s supposed to be.
I understand that instinct more than I want to.
The barn comes into view slowly, rising out of the landscape like something anchored, something that doesn’t shift no matter what changes around it.
Tabby greets me before I even step inside. I crouch without thinking, my hand reaching out automatically as she nudges into it, warm and curious and entirely unconcerned with anything beyond the moment she’s in.
“Hi,” I murmur.
Her nose presses into my palm, and something deep inside me eases for the first time all day. Because these are the simple parts of life I need. There’s no second-guessing here. No expectations layered underneath it. No pressure to prove anything or hold something together.
A sound cuts through the quiet, sharp enough to break the moment clean. I don’t need to check the screen to know who it is. There’s a familiarity to it. I answer anyway.
“Hello.”
“Lark.”
My mother’s voice is precise in that overly controlling way. It hits the same way it always does—like something tightening around me before I even have a chance to react.
“You didn’t answer my last two calls.”
I straighten slowly, stepping out of the cat’s stall she’s claimed as hers, needing space, needing air.
“I’ve been working.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
“I spoke to Nolan.”
Of course she did.
My eyes close briefly. Not because I’m surprised. Because I can already picture how it happened—Nolan’s voice careful, my mother’s sharpened into opportunity, both of them circling the same concern from entirely different motives.
“What did he tell you?”
“That you’re distracted.”
I go still.
Disappointed, yes. But not surprised.
Nolan wouldn’t have meant it the way she does. I know that, even if I don’t want to. From him, distracted means hurt. Tired. Too close to something dangerous and pretending it’s manageable.
From her, it means inconvenient.
I close my eyes briefly.
“What did he tell you?”
