Chapter 11: In Which Waffles Are Salted with Bitterness and Ghosts Resurface Without Warning

“I swear to God, if I see another white suit this season, I’m burning linen,” Lillian muttered, stabbing her waffle like it owed her rent.

They were seated at their usual brunch spot, their favorite corner booth near the window, the table already half-covered in syrup drips, orange slices, and emot...

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