Dante pov

The morning atmosphere was cool, filled with the aroma of wet soil and new timber. Dante stood on the porch, holding a coffee, as he observed the sun rising over the peaceful neighborhood. It continued to feel odd—awakening to quiet rather than sirens, to open air instead of the overwhelming burden of history. He was uncertain if he would ever adapt to it. The screen door creaked open behind him. Lia exited, her sweater snug against her shoulders. She yawned while approaching ...