"Why the hell do you keep calling me Summer?" he had grumbled so many times.
And every single time, she had just smiled, her eyes full of mischief.
"Because you're like summer—warm, bright, and impossible to ignore."
She could still see the way he'd run a frustrated hand through his hair, shaking his head like she was the worst name-giver in history. But he never truly hated it. She knew that.
And now, seeing it here, carved into stone, she felt like she was suffocating.
Her hands clenched into fists.
He had never told anyone else about that name. No one.
Yet, here it was.
That could only mean one thing.
Esme knew.
Not just in passing. Not as some acquaintance.
She was close. Too close.
And suddenly, she understood.
The friend he always talked about. The child he used to mention with such fondness.
It was Esme.
His dearest friend.
A cold realization settled over her.
