You cradle the little pane of glass like it’s a jewel.
Not because it’s pretty, but because it’s proof you still get to decide what light enters your life.
Silas Murdoch’s offer hangs in the air behind you, twenty dollars dressed up as mercy.
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You don’t answer him right away.
You just look at his hands, clean and soft, the hands of a man who never had to pull survival out of dirt.
Then you look down at your own palms, cracked and bleeding, and you feel something settle in your chest.
