By early afternoon, Laya’s mind had softened into that peaceful, steady rhythm that always settled in after a few hours at the Sleepy Monk. Her psychology notes were spread in front of her, her coffee long gone, and the sunlight through the window warmed the sleeve of her sweater. Time always passed differently in Beth’s

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The morning air was cold enough to bite, the kind of chill that burned in your lungs before it woke you up. Harlan liked it that way. Mornings like this were clean and uncomplicated. The quiet, the cold, the open stretch of the field, all of it asked nothing from him except movement. That was

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But that morning, her thoughts refused to line up neatly. She woke before her alarm, the kind of alert that didn’t come from rest but from her mind deciding it had thought enough for one night. She stared at the ceiling for a full minute before rolling onto her side and squinting at the clock.

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