chapter 114

Evelyn’s Point of View

It’s not the oven that scares me anymore. It’s the knife.

Not because I think I’ll hurt myself.

But because of what it represents: precision, mastery, confidence—all things I used to have in abundance. The things Lawrence almost stole from me.

Lina smiles gently as she lays out a tray of vegetables—red peppers, zucchini, carrots—and places a chef’s knife beside it. “We won’t slice today unless you’re ready,” she says. “Let your hands touch the weight first.”

I breathe. Nod.

My fingers close around the handle. Muscle memory flickers in my wrists like old embers trying to catch flame.

But my shoulders go stiff. My breath shortens.

“I can’t—” I whisper. “I used to be able to do this blindfolded.”

“You will again. But not by forcing it,” Lina says.

She gives me a plastic butter knife instead. “Try cutting something soft. Banana, maybe?”

I want to laugh at the ridiculousness of it—but instead, I take it. I cut the banana slowly, silently, each slice landing with a wet