Abigail
Mark sat cross-legged on the floor, silent as ever, his long fingers delicately grasping the tiny porcelain teacup from my make-believe set. The little thing looked ridiculous in his hands—big, rough, and scarred like something ancient. But he held it so carefully, like it was something precious, something breakable as his tail tapped the wood.
I poured the imaginary tea with the grace of a royal hostess, making sure to keep my pinky up, just the way I had taught Owen. He never cared about tea parties before, but he was sitting beside us now, watching Mark closely.
Besides, it’s all we could do while we waited for Mom and Dad to come get back from the… meeting.
Mark didn’t speak much. Barely at all. But that didn’t seem to matter. I talked enough for both of us, and Owen—well,
