The hum of the gallery softened as the door creaked open.
Ama Zarah didn't look up—her hands were dipped in paint, blending crimson with midnight blue. Her strokes were fierce. Controlled.
Just like her life now.
She didn't need distractions. Not today.
Then she heard the voice.
"Still angry at the world?"
Her breath caught.
Slowly, she turned.
Seven years and that voice still had the power to break her walls .
Jordan stood by the door—older, bolder, and still devastatingly familiar.
Ama's fingers tightened around her brush.
She smiled.
But it didn't reach her eyes.
"Only at the parts of it that left without goodbye."