LAYLA
The wind stirred through the garden, carrying with it the faint scent of blooming flowers and damp earth. It was peaceful—so deceptively peaceful that, for a moment, I almost forgot where I was.
Almost.
Thane was talking. His voice was steady, careful, as he spoke about the pack, about what had changed since I had been gone. I knew I should have been listening. I should have cared.
But I didn't.
My eyes drifted over the garden, watching as the wind played with the tall grass, making it sway in unison. It was mesmerizing, the way the leaves rustled, whispering secrets I would never know. My gaze dropped to the ground where a single flower glass—delicate and glistening in the sunlight—lay half-buried in the dirt.
Without thinking, I reached down, brushing my fingers against the fragile stem before picking it up. The petals were soft, almost weightless in my palm. Something about it felt significant, though I couldn't quite place why.
"Are you listening?"
