Alina

The photograph wouldn’t leave me alone. Even when I shoved it deep into my pocket, even when I pressed my hands flat against my legs like I could grind the memory out of existence, it stayed there—burning, haunting, whispering.

Atlas’s words echoed just as loudly as the image: I’ve never forgotten the girl who ruined us.

Ruined them.

How could I ruin anything when I was only a child?

But the photograph was real. The little girl with pale skin and wide eyes was me. The house in ...