Maria had wanted their bed by the window, so she could wish on shooting stars.

He’d laughed at her silly girl notions, but he’d never moved it back. He hadn’t seen a shooting star since their last night together, when she wouldn’t share her wish. Not that he’d cared. He’d focused on the harvest moon, the same damn moon that smirked at him tonight. He hated that moon, the way it tallied his months of solitude, mocked his futile search of heaven and earth.

Stupid notion, wishes. He yanked the curtain shut, wondering if he’d seen what he thought.