Page 24 of She Walks with Broken Things

I didn’t like it.

The clock chimed. Soft. Distant. One. I didn’t need it. Not the ticking. Time lived in me. I adjusted. Moved. The kitchen. Coffee first. The scent hit me before I reached it—bitter, sharp. Four steps. My fingers skimmed the counter. Found the mug.

Heat pressed into my palm. My other hand found the plate. I carried both into the den. Steps. Air. Distance. The desk edge caught my boot. I set the mug down. Aligned it. Placed the plate beside it.

The chair scraped as I pulled it out and sat. Coffee first. Then food. Two pieces of cheese. Four slices of meat. One slice of sourdough. The same. Every day. Routine held everything in place.

I bit. Chewed. Swallowed. Reached again⁠—

But it wasn’t the plate I felt anymore. Bones. Too sharp. Too slight. Her hand. The way it didn’t pull away. The way it didn’t resist. She wasn’t afraid. The thought landed harder than it should have.

I swallowed—and it caught.

The cheese stuck in my throat. I reached for the coffee. Hot bitter. Familiar. Still, the ache stayed. Why? Why wasn’t she afraid?

I reached into my pocket. Pulled my phone free. Swiped. Then pressed play.

“Asset confirmed. Movement detected. Awaiting instruction.”

I stilled. They were waiting. Of course they were. They never stopped. Even after the blood dried. Even after the bodies were buried. It didn’t end. Dried blood cracked. Split open. Left something behind. Something that could be followed. Something that always led somewhere deeper.

I didn’t need more information. Didn’t need names. They’d surface. They always did. And when they did—I’d be ready.

I swiped again.

Pressed play.

“They’re asking for you.”

They always were. Even the dead ones. This hit harder. I stilled. Jaw tightening. Breath controlled. Then—something else.

Not the voice.

Not the room.

The air shifted.

Subtle.