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I stop short, giving her space. “What happened? Why didn’t you call me?”

There’s confusion written across Phoenix’s face. “Why would I call you? You knew where I was going, watched me walk out the door as you strolled along with Cassandra.”

She’s right. I knew, I watched. I told myself she would be fine and I kept walking. I knew about the suspension the day it happened. I watched her walk out of Cascadia with her coat over her arm and her career hanging by a thread. I thought that she would be fine, that I could still fix it. That Phoenix always landed on her feet.

What happened after that I pieced together in fragments. The unanswered texts. The rumors moving through the firm when something significant happens.

I thought I understood the damage. Thought I could contain it. Standing here now, I realize I knew less than I convinced myself I did.

“Phoenix, that’s not what⁠—”

Ding, Ding, Ding. A loud timer goes off, stopping me mid-sentence.

“Oh, it’s time, sunset is upon us! Let’s move everyone, we’re in the window,” Nessa says, ushering us all toward the fire.

Becca frowns. “Why does that matter?”

“You don’t release things in full daylight or full dark. Your brain fights it. There’s too much definition.” Nessa gestures to the sky, the light shifting fast now, painting the area gold. “This part—right here—it’s in-between. Things are already changing. It makes it easier to let something go without trying to control where it ends.”

Mack, walking behind her, says, “There’s actually some truth to that. Transitional light lowers stress response.”

Nessa nods once. “Exactly what I said.” Her magnetism naturally pulls the group with her.

“Alright,” Nessa says, like she’s corralling a group of unruly children while holding a small stack of paper and pens. “This is the burn-it bowl.”

She looks around. “Write down something you don’t want to carry anymore. Could be a thought, could be a person, could be your own bad decision-making—no judgment.”

Under her breath, Mack says, “Some judgment.”

Nessa ignores her. “Fold it, drop it in, and don’t narrate it. This isn’t a group therapy circle.”

Becca snorts. “So we’re just supposed to magically be healed?”

“No,” Nessa says. “We’re not healing, we’re releasing.” Her eyes flick to Phoenix for a second. “You’re supposed to stop gripping it so tightly.”

I look over at Phoenix and see her purposely unclench her fist. Sam raises a brow. “We … burn stuff?”

“Emotionally, yes,” Nessa answers as if she is accustomed to educating the group.

Jared is the first to reach in and grab a paper and pen. “Cool, I can get behind this.”

Becca and Sam follow suit, trying to peek at what the other is writing, holding back a laugh, acting like high schoolers in science class.

Phoenix grabs the paper, writes a quick line, folds it, and drops it. No hesitation. She glances at me briefly, sees my blank paper, and moves on.

I write quickly, before I can overthink it.

Keeping things hidden.

I read it, the thought sitting longer than it should. Then I fold it once and drop it into the bowl. I don’t look at Phoenix, I don’t need to. I can feel her.

We all finish up while Nessa nods approvingly. Grabbing the bowl, she dumps the contents into the fire like it’s routine, not symbolic.

“No take-backs,” Nessa says. “You let it burn—you leave it there.”

I don’t know her, but there’s a confidence in it that feels less like belief and more like certainty. As I watch the flames take the paper faster than I expect, everyone disperses back to the barbecue. Phoenix approaches me.

“Why are you here, Jackson? And don’t tell me it’s because you were invited.”