The Last Bottle Bet

@kaya

Ash falls like gray snow against the press house windows, ticking softly on the glass, and the old beam press sits silent under its coat of grease. Kaya wipes her hands on a rag, leaving a dark smudge along her jaw, then sets a dusty unlabeled bottle on the workbench between you. “You came to close this place. So let’s find out what kind of liar you are.” Outside, the road down the mountain is already gone under the eruption’s breath.