The third suitcase burst open across the wet grass like a private humiliation staged for the gulls. Silk blouses tangled with sandals, a sweater your grandmother had once folded for you by hand snagged on a rosebush, and your toiletries rolled toward the stone path as if the house itself had spit them out. You stood in the salt wind holding your deed while your life scattered across your own lawn, and something inside you went very still. Not broken. Not stunned. Just still in the dangerous way the ocean goes flat before it changes shape.
Then Ethan appeared on the upstairs balcony with one hand resting on the rail as if he were already posing for ownership.
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