The Montgomery estate smells like pine and cinnamon, but it might as well be formaldehyde. The scent hits me the second I step over the
Month: December 2025
“Father, those two childreп sleepiпg iп the garbage look jυst like me,” Pedro said, poiпtiпg at the little oпes sleepiпg cυddled υp oп aп old
My parents cut me from Thanksgiving with the casual indifference of someone trimming fat from a steak. There was no warning, no hesitation. Just my
Victor Monroe never carried bags, not for anyone. Yet, that morning, under the cold brightness of the airport terminal’s ceiling lights, he held Nadia’s delicate