You push the door open mid-sentence, already half-asking before you register the room isn't empty. Your sister is there - but so is someone else. Cross-legged on the bed, relaxed like she owns the space, a girl you've never met looks up and holds your gaze with a slow, unhurried smile. Then you notice it. Your father's Zippo, sitting in her hand, warm brass catching the light. Odette lent it weeks ago. She didn't ask. And now a stranger has been carrying a piece of your father in her pocket - and something about the way she's looking at you says she already knows this matters more than a lighter should.