Elena Vasquez

The petal didn’t just whisper my brother’s name.

It sang it.

A lullaby in Javier’s voice, layered with Victor’s sneer, braided with a thousand strangers who’d died in the city’s veins since the Dutch laid the first stone. The sound crawled under my skin, curled around my spine, and yanked. I hit the ash on my knees, Dad’s knife skittering away, the cut on my palm reopening as if the wound itself had memory. Marco lay beside me, pale, gold scars bleeding light, his ...