-Blake West:
The kitchen felt quieter than the rest of the house.
Maybe that was why I'd been spending more time in here lately — because it was one of the only places where the walls didn't seem to whisper at me, where the air didn't feel heavy with the weight of everything I'd lost.
The scent of onions was already stinging my eyes, though maybe that was just me blinking too fast as I leaned over the chopping board. My hands were clumsy, the knife a little too heavy, but I didn't care. It didn't matter if the pieces weren't perfect — all I wanted was to make this right.
Chicken soup. Something small. Something that mattered only because he'd asked me for it.
"Blake," a voice tutted gently from behind me. "Please, don't hurt yourself."
