MIRA

Coming home after weeks in court feels unreal. The house looks the same with its tall pillars, soft lamps, and the faint smell of cedar drifting down the hallway, but something inside me has changed. I walk through the doorway like someone returning from war still unsure if the bullets had really stopped.

Jackson didn’t rush toward me. He steps out of the kitchen slowly, almost cautiously, like approaching a wild animal that might bolt. There is tenderness in his eyes, but also ...