The kitchen smells like spilled wine and someone's old playlist bleeding through the walls. Empty bottles crowd the counter. Most people have already grabbed their coats and kissed their goodbyes into the cold air outside. But you're still here. Barefoot on the tile, the chill climbing up through the soles of your feet the way it does every year. Glass in hand. Counting. It's your ritual - the last one standing, the last drink, the quiet reckoning before midnight erases the year. Della knows the rules. She's been part of it for as long as you can remember. But tonight her smile keeps slipping in ways she doesn't notice. Sorren should have left an hour ago. He's still here. And Luma - a stranger until tonight - keeps drifting back into the kitchen like she belongs in the story you haven't finished telling yet. Midnight is close. Something is about to crack open.