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And late that summer, on the night before Lilly left for college, she sat in the glade one last time. The fireflies rose around her like scattered stars, blinking in rhythm. She thought of Emmeline’s words about morse code. She watched them flicker: long, short, long. Long, short, long.

Lilly sat cross-legged on the dusty floor and began to read. ts lilly adick

Lilly’s throat tightened. Too sensitive. And late that summer, on the night before

Emmeline had been seventeen, just a year older than Lilly. She wrote of the war overseas, of the influenza that stole her younger brother, of the weight of being the last Blackthorn on the estate. But mostly, she wrote about the glade—a hidden circle of ancient oaks behind the manor, where she claimed the fireflies spoke in morse code and the stream sometimes sang back if you listened long enough. She watched them flicker: long, short, long

She smiled, touched the oak leaf now pinned inside her own journal, and whispered to the dark.

But Lilly’s heart was a drum. Somewhere in between.