Luna stopped predicting things on a Tuesday.
Not all at once. Not with drama.
She just missed the rain.
That morning the sky had been white and flat, the kind that usually meant wind by noon and nothing else. Luna stood on the back steps with David's scarf looped around her neck, staring out across the garden while Scarlett split carrots on the chopping board inside.
"Take the laundry in," Luna said absently. "It'll storm before lunch."
Scarlett looked up.
For years, that voice had meant something. Not authority exactly. But weight. A shift in the room. The world had bent around Luna's warnings too many times for anyone to treat them lightly.
So Scarlett wiped her hands, stepped outside, and looked up at the sky.
No thunder. No pressure. No metallic taste in the air. Just a pale morning and the smell of damp soil from last night's watering.
"You sure?" Scarlett asked.
Luna frowned slightly, not annoyed—listening.
Then she nodded. "I think so."
