The house was a tomb without Lyra.
Elara stood in the center of the living room, staring at the empty spaces Lyra usually occupied, the silence ringing in her ears.
A dark, possessive impulse flared in her chest—the urge to intercept her on the road, to spirit her away. She wanted to tether Lyra to the foundation of the home, to cage her like a rare bird or shackle those slender ankles so she could never wander back to that rotting rented house again.
She imagined Lyra drifting through the rooms like a goldfish in a glass tank. She pictured her in oversized sweaters that swallowed her frame like a sack, the thin fabric fluttering like fins as she padded across the floor on bare, pale feet—feet that looked too delicate to have ever known the grit of the streets.
Had she ever been this unhinged?
A sharp, humorless laugh escaped her.
She was long past the age of adolescent obsession, yet here she was, spiraling.
