Mara's building looked exactly the same as the day I woke up not dead—same scuffed banister, same stubborn elevator with the encouraged sign, same hallway light that flickered like it was trying to wink and kept getting it wrong.
I told myself to breathe. Then I told myself to knock.
I didn't make it to the second tap.
Her door swung open like she'd been standing there with her hand on the knob and three possible outcomes stacked behind her eyes. She looked me over in a single sweep—boots to jawline, not flirty yet, just inventorying for missing pieces.
"You finally remembered my address," she said.
Her voice was warm the way sweaters try to be. Curly hair piled up like she'd shoved it there because life was happening and gravity could fight her later. Oversized tee. Shorts. Bare feet. She smelled like ginger and something green simmering on the stove. Home, pretending not to notice it was hot.
