The Miracle Luna
The fire crackled behind her, casting shadows across the lines of her face, softening nothing.
“You’ve grown,” she said finally, as if it were a complaint.
“So have you,” I replied, voice low, even. “Into someone colder than I remember.”
That earned a flicker of something in her eyes. Not guilt. Not regret. Just… recognition.
Laura stood. She still carried herself like she was made of marble and expectation—stiff spine, chin up, eyes that dared you to disappoint her.
“I called you because I was told you’d finally awakened,” she said, walking to the bar cart with smooth, measured steps. She poured a splash of whiskey into a crystal glass. “That your blood is… stirring again.”