Chapter 29.1

Morning arrives draped in dull gray, the kind of sky that mutes everything—like the world itself has been pressed between the pages of some forgotten book, its color leeched out by time. There's no sun, no birdsong, only the slow exhale of a sky too heavy to cry and too tired to shine.

I wake before my alarm.

The room is quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall. I stare at the ceiling as the soft, silver light of dawn slides across my walls, casting uncertain shadows over the cluttered edges of my bookshelf. Everything looks pale, tentative. Like it, too, is unsure whether to move forward.

I leave early.

No message to Chi. No waiting at the corner convenience store where we've stood together nearly every morning for the past two years. That place feels too intimate now, too known. I avoid it the same way you avoid a wound you're not ready to press on.

Instead, I walk the long way to school.