The evening air outside carries the sweet scent of night jasmine, a gentle counterpoint to the hearty aroma of Mom’s stew still lingering on the property. Rhys and I amble along the worn flagstone path, our shoulders occasionally brushing, sending tiny sparks across my skin. The garden, like everything else on the Kimura estate, exists in a state of beautiful decay, and it’s hushed at this late hour. Only the bugs and the frogs are here with us.
“Your family is... intense,” Rhys says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “But in a good way. Your mom’s stew was amazing.”