“You’re drowning,” Alma said. Not a question.
Over the next weeks, Alma grew wilder—late nights, louder music, a new tattoo of a phoenix on her forearm. Rose grew quieter—canceled dinner plans, stopped watering the jasmine by the door, let the shop’s shutters stay half-closed. SI ROSE AT SI ALMA
Alma was the youngest. She was a cracked bell on a Sunday morning—loud, beautiful, and impossible to ignore. She danced in a cramped studio above a bakery, teaching kids who couldn’t afford lessons. Her laugh was a thunderclap. Her hair was always dyed a different shade of red. She collected people like stray cats, and they followed her into trouble without question. “You’re drowning,” Alma said
Rose didn’t look up. “I’m trying to cut my hair. But my hands won’t move.” She danced in a cramped studio above a