Maxwell POV

The glass was heavy in my hand, heavier than the liquid swirling inside. I tipped it back anyway, letting the burn of whiskey scorch my throat as if it could sear away the memories clawing at me. But no amount of liquor could wash away the truth.

Lila’s laughter haunted me. Her small voice, soft and eager, echoed in my skull, every sound a cruel reminder of what I had lost—what we had lost. The house was silent now, but silence had become my enemy. It amplified the guilt, ...