Did she know?

That was the question sitting on my tongue, heavy and bitter.

Maya turned the last page again, eyes scanning the edge of the journal like she might’ve missed something. I took the book from her carefully, holding it like it might fall apart in my hands. The spine was cracked. The paper smelled like smoke and dust. Her handwriting shifted halfway through—neat, then frantic. The ink smudged in places, like she’d written while crying.

“She was scared,” I said again, but ...