Miri's Pov
Denise.
Her shape flickered in the half-light, faint like smoke yet solid enough that I could see the sharp curve of her jaw, the kind lines around her eyes, the braid of dark hair slung over her shoulder the way she always wore it. My chest tightened so painfully it felt as if my ribs were splintering inward. For a heartbeat, I thought I was imagining things again. That maybe the battlefield, the blood, the noise—it had finally broken me.
But then she moved. She stepped forward with weight, her boots scuffing the floor, the faint glint of her blade catching the dim glow of the torches. Spirits didn't move like that.
And my heart—oh, my traitorous heart—leapt.
"Aunt Denise?" My voice cracked, a whisper swallowed by the air between us.
She didn't answer. Her face remained blank, unreadable, and the ache in my chest twisted deeper.
