Her mother's lover
But when she saw the photo lying on the table, that calm shattered.
Her eyes widened, color draining from her face. “What is that?”
I hesitated. “It was on the porch last night.”
She picked it up with trembling hands, scanning every line, every pixel, her breath quickening.
“This is her,” she whispered. “This is her.”
“I know.”
“She’s alive.”
I didn’t answer.
Because in Scarlett’s voice, I heard something new, something dangerous. Not fear. Not a shock.
Hope.
And hope, in our world, was more dangerous than hate.
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