Almost a month had passed since the night everything fell apart.
Some days it felt like it had happened yesterday.
Other days it felt like I was remembering someone else's life, like I had borrowed memories that no longer belonged to me.
Thirty-one days.
I lay on the bed in the safe house my grandfather had arranged for me, staring at the ceiling for what had to be the hundredth time that week. It had become a habit. Whenever my thoughts grew too loud, I searched for something meaningless to focus on instead. The hairline crack stretching away from the light fixture. The curtains swaying gently whenever the sea breeze slipped through the small gap I always left open. The slow sweep of the second hand across the clock above the wardrobe.
Anything.
Anything except the thoughts I was trying so desperately to outrun.
The problem was that they always found me anyway.
Because every road led back to Ethan.
Thirty-one days.
Thirty-one days without hearing his voice.
