Unholy December
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Ayana stood in Nelson's living room in the afternoon quiet after Cat left around 2 and looked around at the space that was now, temporarily or permanently, her home.
Bare walls. Careful shelves. The couch had barely been used. The kitchen with its two mugs on the table — she'd left them there deliberately, some superstition about the morning, about not erasing the evidence that something had shifted.
She went to the bookshelves.
Ran her fingers along the spines. Social work texts. Philosophy. History. A worn copy of *Meditations* by Marcus Aurelius with the corners bent back. A Bible — different from her father's, less used, the kind kept for reference rather than comfort.
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