And for the first time in her life, Cora Vale felt a little bit of an edge. Not the sharp, dangerous kind. The kind that comes from knowing exactly who you are—beige cardigan, dusty books, and all. The kind that cuts through the noise and whispers: You are enough.

“Cora,” Juniper said, but her voice had an echo, a second harmony a half-beat behind. “It’s glorious. I feel everything. The heat of every lightbulb in the city. The static in every phone line. I am the fizz. I am the ginger .”

“You’re not here for the cucumber water,” said the bartender, her voice a low hum.

At the center of the vast, empty floor was a single wooden chair. And in that chair sat a woman who was not a woman. She was a distillation of angles and amber light. Her hair was a cascade of coppery-red fibers, each one moving slightly, as if stirred by an internal breeze. Her skin had the translucence of a fresh rhizome. When she smiled, her teeth were the color of clove.

Cora reached into her pocket. She pulled out a small, flat object—a vintage silver bookmark shaped like a fern. It had belonged to their grandmother. She held it up.

Juniper slumped. The Ginger Woman rose from her chair, her form blurring at the edges, becoming a cloud of spice and rage.

Cora looked at her sister. She saw the wild joy, the terrifying freedom. And she saw the emptiness behind it. Juniper wasn’t more herself —she was less. The edge had eaten the center.

“I want my sister,” Cora said, her voice steadier than she felt.