4
Arsen
It’s the middle of the night, but I’m not asleep. I should be. I want to be. But I lie in my bed and stare at the street light stealing into my windows, look at the shadows cast on the wall by my blinds. It’s been a few days since we returned to the house.
I lost my taste for hotels when I woke to my eggs cooked incorrectly for the fourth time in a row. Driven mostly by my own need to be comfortable, I pushed Fiore into agreeing that we should return.
When I followed her into the house, into the living room… she pressed her knuckles against her lips, her face screwing up in pain as she looked at the spot where her brother died.
Her reaction was heartbreaking. I found myself thinking that I pushed too soon. But before I could attempt to comfort her, she fled upstairs to her roo
