THE LAST SHOULDERMaxwell’s POVThe silence that followed our crying was not the kind that brought peace.It was the kind that settled like dust after destruction—thick, choking, and heavy with the reminder of what had been lost.Mira’s arms were still around me, and my forehead rested lightly against her shoulder. Her warmth was the only thing in that mansion that still felt familiar. Everything else—every chandelier, every expensive curtain, every marble floor—had suddenly become strange, almost hostile, like the house itself had rejected me the moment it was stolen.My breathing slowed gradually, but my chest still burned. I felt hollow.As though grief had eaten something vital inside me. Mira pulled away gently and held my face with both hands. Her eyes were swollen, her cheeks damp, but her gaze was steady—stronger than mine.“Maxwell,” she whispered, her voice shaking slightly, “you must eat something.”I laughed bitterly, not because it was funny, but because the thought was a
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