Abigail forced herself to move and each step felt like she was walking through water. She bent down, her trembling hands reaching for the hose she’d dropped earlier, fingers fumbling with the nozzle as if it were the most important task in the world. The steady spray resumed, but it was no longer about watering the garden. It was about holding herself together.
Her eyes refused to stop watering. Again and again, she dragged the back of her hand across them, wiping so harshly that her skin turned raw and red. The light burn and sting didn’t matter. What mattered was making sure the tears didn’t spill fast enough for anyone to notice. Her sobs came in tiny, controlled breaths, muffled and restrained, but the ache in her chest roared so loud she could barely hear the trickle of water hitting
