There’s only one sentence inside, written in the same precise, carved handwriting:
You taste the same.
My legs almost give out.
Tears burn behind my eyes—not from sadness, but from sheer, bone-deep fear tangled with something darker. Something I don’t want to name because the thing that terrifies me most isn’t that Kai was here.
It’s that I’m not sure I want to convince myself he wasn’t.
The box waits.
Still.
Quiet.
Like a pulse.
I swallow hard, fingers hovering over the ribbon.
I want to walk away.
I want to throw it out.
I want to scream.
Instead, I untie it.
Slow.
Silent.
The lid lifts.
Inside, nestled in dark velvet, lies a little gold locket.
My breath freezes.
Not new.
Not shiny.
Old.
Scratched.
Worn.
Familiar.
A locket I wore when I was eighteen—the one Kai bought me at that stupid county fair the night he held my hand on the Ferris wheel and told me he’d never let anything happen to me.
I remember dropping it during the trial.
I remember not being allowed to pick it back up.
I remember thinking it was lost forever.
It’s here.
