past him, he grabbed my arm, his grip ti

my voice remaining calm, betraying none of

g for my pocket. His face was a mask of self-righteous suspicion. He saw m

old, ingrained fluidity that surprised even me

ry. I was Phoenix, a name whispered with awe in the highest echelons of national security. I was entrusted with secrets that could topple governments, with skills that could alter the cour

no concept of the world I truly inhabited. He saw a faded woman in

omposure. "You're a terrible liar, Elara. You

morning when I pretended this hollow existence was enough. I lied when I smiled at his political f

the living room. "Julia made cooki

wore for me melted away, replaced by a fond

g room, where Julia was pulling a tray of perfectly browned chocolate chip cookies from a baking shee

rm," she cooed, holding one up to his mouth. He

he said, his mouth full. "I don'

own home. They were a perfect, happy family, and I was the outsider. It was a scene Mark had carefully orchestrat

t-in bookshelves in the living room, where we kept family photos and mementos. But he didn't place it on just any shelf. He took down a framed picture of me in m

lance at the photo of his mother. He just saw

oring my past; he was actively burying it, replacing my legacy with a cheap plastic toy bought by another w