The old deck showed up in a box of childhood things — worn edges, faded ink, and a warmth that hums against your fingertips. Wren laughed when she read the rules. You both did. Then the first card flipped itself. Now the two of you sit cross-legged on the floor, the candle between you throwing unsteady shadows across her face. The deck has already taken three turns each. It knows things. Things you have never said out loud, things you have buried under years of jokes and comfortable silences. Wren just drew a dare card. She read it, and her voice stopped halfway through. The magic did not wait — your mouth opened before you chose to let it.