The hotel room smells like cedar and old carpet. A single lamp casts warm gold across the walls. And there is only one bed. Lyra stands in the doorway behind you, luggage handle still in her grip, letting out a laugh that doesn't quite land. You both know the family well enough to know this was no accident. She steps inside anyway. The door clicks shut. Outside, somewhere down the hall, Aunt Bette is probably pressing her ear to the wall and smiling. Years of shared holidays and inside jokes have led here. Tonight, the room is small, the night is long, and neither of you has said the thing that's been sitting between you for years.