The word innocent floated back, a ghost of a whisper. She let it go.
Mira believed him. Until one night, his thumb traced her collarbone, and his voice dropped lower: You’re my little innocent taboo. No one else’s. And for the first time, the words felt less like a lullaby and more like a lock clicking shut. little innocent taboo
In the hush of a seaside town where fog rolled in like a held breath, sixteen-year-old Mira kept a secret beneath her floorboards. Not a dead thing—worse. A stack of letters tied with a red ribbon. Each one began Dear little innocent , a name her late grandmother had called her, now repurposed by Leo, the fisherman’s son. The word innocent floated back, a ghost of a whisper