Cecilion sat at the long, wooden table, sunlight filtering through the canopy above and dappling the white cloth with shifting wisteria shadows.
The air was rich with the scent of crushed grass, lilacs, and something sweet and warm—like honey-glazed pastries cooling on an oven rack. It was almost enough to lull him into peace.
Almost.
Across from him sat Casper, poised and quiet, his hands clasped in front of him as if he were a guest in someone else's dream. Next to him was Miss Zhang, his mother, dressed in a pale blue silk blouse that shimmered like water under the sun.
Her hair, always pinned back tight in his memories, now flowed down her shoulders in loose waves. She was laughing—soft, musical laughter—at something Mr. Zheng had said, her fingers resting gently on her teacup as if she had known this comfort her whole life.
And that was the first thing that made Cecilion's skin crawl.
