Lisa’s POV

I didn’t touch it right away. The tea had gone from steaming to lukewarm by the time I finally curled my fingers around the cup, as if holding it might anchor me. But it didn’t. The warmth seeped into my palms, and still I felt cold.

The toast sat there on the plate, edges dark and flaking. I couldn’t stop staring at it. It was almost absurd—something so small, so harmless. Bread. Burnt. Nothing more. And yet it sat like a question in front of me, one I couldn’t answer without stepping into a place I wasn’t sure I wanted to go.

The creak of a chair startled...