Lia's pov

Silence lingered between them, dense and stagnant. Dante remained still, his hand firmly clutching the door, knuckles pale. Lia was unable to see his face distinctly, yet she sensed the tension emanating from him in waves. Elena stood on the porch, bathed in the faint light of the porch lamp. Her hair was distinct—shorter, irregular. Her face appeared more gaunt, with shadows etched under her eyes. She wasn't the Elena that Lia recalled, the one who had troubled them for years. ...