(Karen’s POV)

Some truths don’t burn—they smolder.

You don’t see the fire; you just feel the air turn thin.

That’s how it’s been since I found Yasmin’s journal.

It’s hidden beneath my bed now, wrapped in an old scarf. I’ve read it three times, each word cutting in a different place. The first time, I wanted to tear the pages apart. The second, I wanted to cry for the girl she once was. The third, I realized there’s nothing left to feel—only a dull ache that never ...