Different world.
Connor’s mom—Lena—sat beside him, fingers wrapped around a cup she barely drank from. There were still shadows under her eyes. Healing doesn’t happen all at once. But every few seconds, her hand would drift to Connor’s shoulder, like she needed to remind herself he was still there.
Still breathing.
Still hers.
The bell above the diner door jingled.
Connor’s body tensed.
It was small. Most people wouldn’t have noticed.
Preacher did.
Always would.
Preacher didn’t turn his head. Didn’t make a scene. He just shifted slightly in his seat—enough to block Connor’s line of sight from the entrance.
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