SERAPHINA "Sera" MORTEZ'S POINT OF VIEW
"Good morning, Coto."
The words ride on air cool enough to prickle my skin, the sun just a thin gold line over the hills. The river hums beside our house-steady, clear, sliding over stones like silk. Birds thread their songs through the branches above, and a rooster's crow cuts clean through the quiet, marking the world awake.
I lean against the door frame, stretching until my shoulders crack. My favorite wooden chair waits on the porch, worn smooth by years of my weight. In one hand, a chipped mug of coffee bitter enough to ground me; in the other, a plastic bag warm with fresh rolls, their yeast scent mixing with damp earth and river mist.
Lucian.
The name settles in my mouth like a stone I've carried for seven years. Auntie Mercing used to say fate doesn't chase-it waits. That someday, what we run from finds its way back. I'd told her she was too old for stories. Now I watch the water and wonder if she'd been right all along.
