Orange. Slightly crumpled, like it had been carried in a pocket too long. The kind of thing you see every day without thinking—until suddenly, it becomes the center of a story.
“You brought it, right?” Maren whispered, just loud enough for those closest to hear.
That was the moment the narrative shifted, though not in the way it should have. Instead of clarity, her words added fuel to the wrong kind of certainty. Adults exchanged sharper glances now, their expressions tightening as their assumptions began to harden into conclusions. A man who looked out of place. A child who ran to him. A secret exchange. A bottle. It was enough for fear to assemble its version of the truth.
One of the guards tightened his grip on Nolan’s arm. “We told you not to come back here,” he said, his tone no longer just firm but edged with something closer to accusation.
And just like that, whatever chance there had been for a calm explanation slipped further out of reach.
