The catchlight wasn’t a reflection of a window or a softbox. It was a tiny, perfect mirror image of Maya’s own exhausted face—except in the reflection, her mouth was open in a scream she hadn’t yet made.
She unplugged her computer.
Leo. Leo. Leo.
She clicked it.
She worked through the night. Fifty images. Each took three seconds. The results were impossible. Shadows bent to her will. Flyaway hairs tucked themselves behind ears. Even a badly overexposed sky turned a deep, painterly blue.