By the time the sun drops behind the west ridge, the dust is already in my mouth. It coats the back of my tongue like a second language I never quite forgot. I rinse a wine glass and hold it up to the light strung across the old barn rafters. It sparkles the way money…

The lights above Mara’s desk were the color of arctic water—blue enough to sting, clean enough to hurt. They were tuned that way on purpose. Blue light suppressed melatonin, the wellness memos said. Blue light sharpened cognition. Blue light was the visible proof that the building cared. Mara sat very still, shoulders squared, wrists flat…

By the time they reached the front door, the paint smell had already crawled up her nose and settled behind her eyes. It was the kind of white—eggshell, the realtor had said in the listing—that promised light and forgiveness. Mira paused on the stoop, keys jingling in the agent’s hand ahead of her, and inhaled…

The phone buzzes against my thigh, and for half a second I think it’s my heart. That’s the first lie of the night. Not the worst one, just the earliest. I’m standing in the bathroom of Restaurant Échelon—marble sinks, eucalyptus hand soap, a mirror that makes everyone look solvent and unafraid. I check my face…