Days blurred into months, slipping through my fingers like grains of sand. Before I knew it, every last piece of our old life had been packed into boxes, labeled in my mother’s neat, tight script, and shipped to Harold’s home. Only the essentials made the journey—clothes, important documents, school supplies, and the photo albums that held the only tangible proof of what once was. Everything else, every little thing that made our house a home, was left behind.At first, my parents had been reluctant. They wrapped their concern in clipped words and tight-lipped glances, refusing to grant us even the smallest sliver of freedom in this unfamiliar town. But Sheriff Donovan had a way with persuasion, a patience that whittled down their resistance until, eventually, they relented.I had expected them to hold on longer, to clutch us tighter, their desperation forming an iron cage around us. But maybe, deep down, they realized the truth—no matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t keep us loc
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