It arrived in a box on a cold Tuesday morning.

Amelia's sock-clad feet padded quickly down the stairs and she pulled her cardigan more tightly around her as she went to open the door. The frigid winter breeze tickled the base of her neck and she watched in dismay as the delivery driver made off in his van down the street. She had wanted to ask him about the mysterious sender of this parcel; not that she had expected any sort of clarity, of course. But it wouldn't have hurt. The whole thing was an enigma surrounded in a thick cloud of intrigue and she was dying for answers. As it was, Helga wouldn't tell her anything.

She bent down and scooped up the package, which was lighter than she had thought it would be. The door closed firmly behind her, she made her way to the sitting room and turned on a tableside lamp so she could see better. In this lighting, the box looked nothing but ordinary: about two feet in length, the cardboard smeared with grime from its journey. She wasn't entirely sure what she had been hoping for, but it offered no clues. A quick glance at the clock told her it was already a quarter past four, and Helga wouldn't be awake for at least another half hour. Damn, she thought. As curious as she was, this parcel wasn't for her. She had waited almost a month to find out what was inside, and another 30 minutes wouldn't kill her.

It had all started when they had received that phone call four weeks prior. Helga had just sat down to breakfast when the ancient corded phone had shrieked the alarm of an incoming call. "I'll get it," Amelia had said, just like she always did, but Helga had wrapped a gnarled hand around her arm and quietly said,

"That's alright dear. I'll get it."

She hadn't been sure her dear Grandmother would even make it to the phone in time, but the one-sided conversation she'd been privy to had been...peculiar. Helga had answered in her typical, soft spoken manner, and whoever was on the other end had spoken for ages. Amelia was already halfway through her own meal before she had spoken again, only muttering out, “How long will it take?" Silence once more. By that point, Amelia's ears had perked up and she sat intent, watching her Grandmother's features remain unchanged. But the old woman only nodded, her bright blue eyes fixed steadily on the wall in front of her. "Same address. Yes. I do so appreciate it. Bye now."

And just like that, she had hung up the phone and sat back down at the breakfast table, daintily sipping her tea.

"So..." Amelia leaned forward, eyebrows raised. "Who was that?"

"Just an old friend," Helga had responded. Her eyes had then taken on a faraway look, the one that arose when she was recalling something from the past. It was no use pestering her about it; her memory wasn't what it once was and there was a good chance it had been a telemarketer or a wrong call on the other end of the phone.

Or so she had thought, up until that man had shown up at the door.

He'd introduced himself as Trevor Baker, a friend of Helga's paying a long overdue visit. Even now, Amelia could not recall the last time anyone had come to see her Grandmother at her house; she'd been living here for a year and outside of a church member or the like, Helga kept a small social circle. She'd never made mention of this Trevor fellow, and Amelia had initially been hesitant to let him inside. But Helga had come 'round the stairwell and ushered him in, a warm smile overtaking her wrinkled features. The two had gone into the Parlor and shut the door, leaving Amelia beyond bewildered for the next hour and a half.

She'd been back in the kitchen loading the dishwasher when the sound of the front door slamming had caught her attention. By the time she'd made her way to the foyer the man was gone, but Helga was standing at the window, watching him depart. "Who was that?" she couldn't help but blurt out; this followed by the strange phone call had her positively hooked. But her Grandma was the quiet sort who kept to herself, and she had only smiled at her over her shoulder with a little twinkle in her eye.

"You'll see," was what she had said. "In a few short weeks, a parcel will be arriving that will explain everything."

And now it was here. Tempted as she was to open it, she had the feeling whatever was inside would do little to answer her questions without Helga's aid.

"Mama? What was that?" Amelia turned her head at the sound of her daughter's voice, smiling a bit as the 9-year-old yawned, rubbing her still-sleepy eyes as she padded into the room.

"It's a package honey." Amelia beckoned her in for a hug, and the small girl tucked herself into her mother's arms.

"Is it for me?" Amelia laughed and tousled her hair.

"It's for your Bubbe. But I'm sure she'll let us know what's inside."

"Maybe candy." Maya nodded, her voice still nasal from her cold. Instinctively, Amelia pressed her lips to her daughter's forehead, grateful that her fever had finally seemed to abate.

"Maybe so. How was your nap? Are you feeling any better?" Maya nodded again, her eyes still fixated on the box.

"Yeah. It was good. And my head doesn't hurt anymore."

"Good." Amelia rubbed her back and found her own gaze was fixed on the mysterious package. "How about some juice?"

"Yes please!" Maya did a happy little dance and Amelia chuckled as she stood, heading back towards the kitchen. It was a joy to see her sparkle returning; after the unexpected death of her husband, and Maya's father, the young girl's demeanor had become withdrawn and skittish. It was only since Maya had reformed a connection with her great grandmother that things had begun to improve. Young lives were so easily marred, yet also mended if only proper care was taken.

The snow outside was beginning to fall more steadily now, and Amelia took a moment to ponder its beauty as she poured Maya a cup of apple juice. Helga made mention at the start of every winter how much she hated the snow; how it only served to remind her of darkness and starvation and the end of the promise of light. But she could never truly see it that way. For herself, a fresh blanket of snow promised nothing but new beginnings, a blank slate. A well-earned rest after a season of light and life.

She was surprised to discover Helga sitting with Maya by the time she made it back to the living room. "Bubbe!" she said warmly, handing off the juice to her daughter as she came to sit with her. "I didn't know you were up too."

"I heard the doorbell," she said, motioning towards the wall. "It just took me this long to get in here." A soft chuckle escaped from her throat and Amelia laughed along with her. "It's finally come."

"What is it, Bubbe?" Helga reached out for it, groaning softly, and Amelia quickly sprang to fetch it for her. Setting it carefully on her lap, she watched as her eyes filled with some unknown emotion, her knobbed, arthritic hands running softly up and down the box.

"Would you open it?" she asked softly, looking down at it as if it was made of pure gold. Amelia cast a quick glance over at her daughter who had downed the apple juice and was staring expectedly at them both.

"Of course. Here." She took it once more in her arms and settled on the floor, sliding her fingers beneath the tabs. Amelia felt compelled to treat it like a fragile bundle, especially once she discovered that the goodies were wrapped with packing peanuts and bubble wrap. The curiosity nearly killing her, she slowly pulled the object from the box and carefully unwrapped the protections.

"A doll!" Maya softly exclaimed. And right she was; there in her hands was a delicate porcelain doll, wrapped in a paisley cotton dress. Amelia stared at it for a moment, transfixed by the rosy cheeks, the soft blonde curls, the slash of crimson that represented her delicate lips. She looked antique, but well taken care of, and the question was on the tip of her tongue when Helga finally spoke.

"She was mine." Her mouth turned upward in a half-smile though her eyes, still fixed on the doll, were sad. "Many, many years ago." Wordlessly, Amelia lifted her towards her grandmother, a thousand questions sifting through her mind.

"Why is she here?" Maya asked, her eyes blown wide in wonder. Amelia couldn't help but smile; from the mouths of babes!

"She's here to bring joy," Bubbe answered carefully, as if she were weighing each word before speaking them. "Or so I hope, at least." She was drifting again, her bright blue eyes looking back on a past neither Amelia nor her daughter could see. This little doll had clearly triggered something and Amelia wasn't certain what the situation called for. Helga inhaled sharply all of a sudden, and locked eyes with her. Her heart spoke for her.

"What are you thinking, Bubbe?" Her eyes watered, and Amelia found the sight somewhat foreign. She could not bring to mind the last time she'd ever seen her cry.

"The last time I held her," she replied, eyes once more taking on that faraway look. "I had just stepped off of a cattle car."

*** Ravensbrück Concentration Camp Fürstenberg, Germany February 1943 "Ama? Have we arrived?" Helga could see nothing, but could feel the overwhelming press of the bodies packed in around her. She could hear nothing, save the muffled shouts from outside the car and the sporadic gasps, moans, and sobs of her fellow passengers. Ama had told her over and over again that if she was a good girl and didn't vomit, didn't speak, didn't cry until they arrived, then she would get a special treat. And she had waited a good ten minutes after the car had stopped moving to ask anything, lest she get in trouble when it actually counted.

"I believe we have, my darling." Ama's voice in the darkness comforted her somewhat, but the stench of human waste filling her nostrils sent a roll of nausea through her empty stomach. She could not remember the last time she had eaten or had a drop of water on her lips, but still it felt like she would be sick at any moment.

"Are we going to get off?" Her question hung in the air and remained unanswered for a few beats too long, and she cradled Eloise in her arms, pulling her tight against her chest. When the angry men had come, there had been no time to gather any needed belongings. As it was, Eloise was the only worldly possession she had in her care, save the clothes upon her back.

"Give me Eloise, Helga." The words were blunt, a far cry from her mother's soft tone but a few seconds before. She responded by squeezing her doll ever tighter against her, a lifeline in the midst of all this darkness. "Helga. Give her to me now."

"Why?" She spoke in a whisper, afraid of what the others might think of her naughtiness. Ama's hands found her shoulders, and pulled her in close, and she found a moment of respite there in her arms.

"Remember what I've told you?" Ama whispered back. "How old are you, Helga?"

"Fourteen," she responded, but still it seemed odd to lie. She had turned twelve just two months ago.

"You're big for your age, aren't you? Big and strong. Strong enough to do all that is asked of you. Isn't that right, my girl?"

"Yes Ama."

"And when you are asked if you want to work, what will you say?"

"I will say yes, Ama. I want to work."

"Good girl. Good, good girl. But workers don't have time to play, my darling. They do not have time for dollies." Ama's voice was picking up in speed, a frantic whisper as the sound of shouting and sliding doors resounded outside their car. "So you must give me Eloise, alright? And you mustn’t cry."

"But..." Ama's hands tugged at Eloise and Helga couldn't stop the swell of tears. "But what if -" "Out! Out! Now!" The demand fell harsh and brutal upon her ears as the doors slid open. A rush of cold air swept through at the exact moment Ama snatched Eloise from her hands and shoved the doll into the arms of a much younger girl.

"Remember what I've told you," Ama said as the passengers began moving in tandem outside. "Do not be afraid. Be a good girl."

Any response died on her lips the moment one of the angry men grabbed her by the arm and shoved her outside into the snow, screaming orders until her ears rang with it.

"Ama?" she questioned, the shock of his violence pulling the strength from her throat. A tall, wicked fence stood before her and she gulped down a sob, shielding her eyes from the bright lights cutting through the frigid night air. Wretched faces surrounded her, none of them familiar, and she fought to keep the terror from crawling up her throat. She needed to be a good girl. For Ama. Someone suddenly took her by the arm again, thrusting her into a forming line. "All children to the left! All women to the right! Now!" By instinct, she moved towards the left, only to be grabbed once more and pulled to the line of haggard, terrified women.

"You're a big girl, Helga." The soft voice of her mother, and for that single moment, the terror dimmed. "Stay with me. That's it." The line of children made their way through the snow, tears pouring as their mothers screamed for them to no avail; they were forced to walk in the opposite direction. Helga caught one last fleeting glimpse of the little girl who had taken her doll, heart sinking as each step took her further and further away. Ama was speaking but she was no longer listening as they marched through the gates. She wanted Eloise. She wanted to be with the children.

Two lines. Two fates. She hadn't known it then.

"Take heart, my child." Ama was looking over her shoulder at her, offering a warm smile. "This will all be over soon." Warmth blossomed in her chest and she smiled back, not knowing those would be the last words she would ever hear her speak.

Less than an hour later, they put a bullet in her mother's head.

*** Silence reigned, as hushed as the snowfall outside. Tears pooled in Amelia's eyes as she sat breathless on the floor, her heart crumpled in on itself. She never talked about her time in the camp. Not even once.

"There is a foundation that in some way or another, finds the belongings they stole from the people as they arrived at the camps and returns them to the families when possible." Bubbe sighed, twirling one finger around Eloise's curl. "Most are in museums now. Many have been lost to time. But some..." She stroked the doll's cheek. "Some find their way home." Amelia swallowed the lump in her throat, turning to watch her own daughter playing by the fireplace, having lost interest halfway through the story. To be faced with such a decision...to have no way to protect yourself, or your child... "Little one," Bubbe called out. "Come here child." Maya tossed a smile over her shoulder before scrambling to her feet, coming to stand in front of her great grandmother. Her eyes were on the doll. "I want to give her to you, little one. Would you like that?" Maya's eyes filled with a warm glow and she nodded excitedly.

"Yeah! I love her!"

"Her name is Eloise," Helga said quietly. "And she needs to be taken special care of. She needs the love of a little girl. Can you do that for me?" Maya seemed to grasp the seriousness of the moment and laced her fingers together, nodding once more.

"I can, Bubbe. I promise." Amelia watched with some level of amazement as the doll passed hands, from one generation to the next. Considering all that had led to this moment, it was nothing short of a miracle. Both women watched as Maya skipped off to the fireplace, cradling the doll in her arms, singing softly to herself. Amelia sob-laughed, turning to look at the woman she admired, she adored, but was beginning to understand didn't know as well as she ought to.

"Did you always plan on giving it to her?" Helga nodded.

"Yes. I wanted her to have it."

"Why?"

Helga pondered the snow now falling on a quiet earth, the warmth of the fire in the hearth, the gentle sounds of a child playing who knew she was safe. "Sometimes," she said, leaning back in her chair without taking her eyes off the girl. "We need to see the essence of hope for ourselves. To remind us that it still exists." She leaned back, a smile in her eyes. "To know that darkness, however rampant, can never truly overcome the light."


I don’t enjoy All Hallows Eve, Halloween. In fact, it always makes me a little bit sad. I cannot help remembering the story of that young boy who disappeared. Surely you have heard of him? It was a few years ago now. Just down this very street. Harvey was his name. It was only his second ever Halloween. The previous year he had gone ‘trick or treating’ with is best friend Elwood, along with Elwood’s family. The pair of them, each only four years old at the time, went as a two headed, three legged troll. Elwood’s mother had sewn the outfit for them. Individually, Elwood and Harvey were both quite shy little boys, but together they possessed a quiet confidence. Elwood was the natural leader of the pair, Harvey always content to follow. For that first Halloween the boys went with a group from Elwood’s kindergarden. A happy, noisy bunch of eight boys and girls, along with the three parents who had drawn the short straws. Harvey in particular was excited mostly by the reactions that their costume received. He positively beamed every time one of the neighbours, upon opening their front doors, would comment on how good was his and Elwood’s character. He just loved being noticed, even if only as part of a pair. Strangely for a little boy, he was not at all interested in the lollies and chocolates. He let Elwood have them all. For him, both the trick and the treat seemed to be in just being appreciated, acknowledged, noticed. When it was finally over, Harvey slept the night at Elwood’s place. The boys talked themselves to sleep planning the next year’s characters. The costumes. The mannerisms they would act out to bring the characters to life. The lead up to their next Halloween started excitedly, with several weeks of anticipation and planning. The boys finally decided on their costumes. They would be going as Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee. The inseparable twins from Alice’s dreamworld. Unusually, the costume choice was Harvey’s, not Elwood’s. The first sign of trouble came a week before the day of Halloween. Elwood was feeling somewhat poorly and went to bed early, with a bit of a temperature. He awoke the following morning in a rash of itching spots. The poor thing had picked up chicken pox. At first, Harvey was just concerned for his friend. The disease was not very pleasant, but Harvey spend all day every day with Elwood in his room. He could not be persuaded to leave. Even the threat of contagion made no impression on his stoic soul. But as the week dragged on it became obvious that Elwood would not be able to go trick or treating. Harvey was mortified. He began to have his first ever selfish concerns, so desperately did he want to go. It was the highlight of his young life but there was no way that he could go without Elwood. He was just too shy to go on his own. None of the other kids played with him, not even Elwood’s friends. They did not even talk to him. He just hung around in the background, anytime that Elwood was with other children, at the edge, out of notice. He complained to his friend that it wasn’t fair. But Elwood, still itchy and grumpy from the chicken pox, and not a little annoyed that he too was going to miss out, got angry and lost his temper at Harvey. For the first time that either could remember. “Why don’t you grow up and go on your own?” He shouted at Harvey. “Stop being such a baby.” Harvey said nothing. He just sat there, taking Elwood’s frustrated tirade. When Elwood finally stopped and rolled over in bed, turning his back on his friend, Harvey walked away in silence. Come the afternoon of Halloween, Harvey somehow found the courage to join the kinder group. He had on his costume, a rather forlorn looking Tweedle Dee, and he walked along at the back of the group. Totally unnoticed. To start with Harvey didn’t mind that the other children ignored him. He remembered the warm feelings he had felt the previous year, and walked up to the doors with quiet anticipation. But with the first house that the little troupe attended, his confidence and joy shattered. As he took his turn, at the end of the the line of giggling ghouls and laughing fiends, door after door closed in his face. Not one comment on is costume. Not a single piece of candy. It was like living out a nightmare, a monsterous treadmill from which he could not escape. House after house the same thing. Harvey stoically held his tears at bay though his chest constricted against his pounding heart. Suddenly he realised that the next house was Elwood’s. He pushed through the boisterous gaggle of ghouls and witches and stood defiantly at the front when Elwood’s father opened the door. Surely now he would be acknowledged. Finally someone would see him. But no. His best friend’s own father looked passed Harvey to the children behind him. The dam cracked. Overwhelmed, Harvey ducked his way around Mr Dowd’s legs and he stumbled blindly towards Elwood’s room. As he got to the half open door, through which was his only friend in the entire world, he stopped short, hearing Elwood’s mum arguing with Elwood. “Enough is enough Elwood!” She shouted, in exasperation. “You are five years old, nearly six. You will be a school boy next year.” Elwood said nothing. “You need to stop all this nonsense with Harvey. It has to end. You have real friends to play with now. You are too old to have imaginary friends any more. I want an end to this. Now!” And, after a painfully drawn out pause, in a small voice Elwood replied. “Yes mum. I won’t talk about him anymore. I know that Harvey isn’t really real.” Harvey, in a wash of pure anguish, turned and ran through the house. No longer restraining his shattered emotions, he burst through the retreating group of children. He dashed through the front gate, tears streaming from his eyes, and disappeared down the street. And that was when Harvey disappeared. He has not been seen or heard of since.


Sammie Harris moved from her home in Georgia to her new home in Cary, North Carolina, due to a multitude of reasons she would rather forget. Moves often meant that she would have to attend a new school, which is why Sammie found herself attending Cary High School for her senior year. Being the new girl in school was nothing new for her, so she didn't even try to make any friends. To Sammie, the move was only temporary. She thought there was no sense in making friends if she wouldn't even attend the school for a full year. Three months into the school year, Sammie started to lose all hope of a nice life and couldn't take it anymore. She broke down into tears in the locker room and slid down her locker once the second late bell rang. Everyone was in his or her first period class at that point...well, almost everyone. Austin Vincent, the school's apparent most popular guy because of his features and kindness, happened to forget something in his locker. When he went down to get it, he heard the faint sound of someone crying. Austin I grabbed a pass and left the room, headed to my locker. As I walked down the stairs to the locker room, I whistled a tune and absentmindedly hit the pass against my leg. For whatever reason, my brain kept thinking Popeye the Sailor Man! over and over . Just as I got halfway through the locker room, I heard a sound. I stopped in my tracks and listened, confused. The sound came again a second later, and I recognized it as a sob. Another sob echoed throughout the room, sounding like it was just around the corner from where I stood. I quietly rounded the corner and spotted a girl scrunched up against a locker, her knees brought up to her head, her arms hiding her face. Her shoulders lifted as she took in a deep breath and nodded, then wiped away her tears and stared up at the ceiling. Transfixed, I tiptoed closer and took a glance at her face. She was beautiful. Her reddish orange hair was like my favorite cinnamon candy, styled in waves that rested on her shoulders as it cascaded down her back. Some of it was tucked behind her ears, a pencil holding the right strands in place. Her eyes were pale blue, much like a sky that is unsure if it wants to release rain or not, and her lips were sparkly and light red. Without warning, she looked in my direction, her expression that of someone who was extremely tired. Her eyes that were once a pale blue turned a stormy gray as she held my gaze. Well this is awkward,

I thought to myself. I smiled, then walked over to her and stopped right in front of her feet. An inch closer and our feet would touch. She didn't say anything, just held my gaze. Her neck was tilted so that she could look up at me, which must've been uncomfortable, so I decided to kneel down and sit beside her. Silence passed over us, neither of us seeming to want to break it. Fudge it,  I thought. I turned to her and met her gaze once more. With a smile I said, "Hey! I'm Austin. Welcome to our school." I didn't want to seem like I was all up in her business, so I decided not to ask her why she was crying, yet. I could tell that she was trying to regain her composure when she tried to smile back at me and failed. She cleared her throat and replied with a quiet, "Nice to meet you. I'm Sammie." My smile widened as I realized I knew who she was. I nodded excitedly and told her my thoughts. Her face contorted into a confused look and her posture changed slightly, like she was slightly freaked out. She's so adorable!

Wait... what? She scooted over a little and looked down, probably in attempt to be subtle, but I caught it. My face fell. She must be scared of me,  I thought. I thought what I said over, and then realized how weird it may have sounded. "I-I mean I know your name already because you're in some of my classes." I've always noticed you,  I wanted to say.

I just never spoke to you. She nodded and the silence returned. Not wanting to seem like a creep, I tried to refrain from staring at her, but it was honestly a struggle because she was just so beautiful, but for both of our sakes, I managed. Who knows how long later, Sammie turned to me and let out a sigh. She sat up straight and let her head fall against the locker. Without looking at me, she asked, "You probably want to know why I was crying don't you?"

I gaped and turned to face her. Her question caught me off guard and truthfully, I wasn’t so sure if I should answer honestly. Of course, I wanted to know why she was crying, but I also didn't want to pry.

"You don't have to deny it. I know you want to know. Why not just admit it?" I looked over at her in an attempt to make eye contact to see if she was joking, but she was facing forward. I ran a hand through my hair and responded with a sheepish, "I didn't want to pry but... yes. I do want to know."

She just nodded her head and started off with her story. "I am not happy with my life—at all. I have zero hope left for doing anything with my life."

My eyes widened as I processed her stunning information. I opened my mouth to speak, but she quickly added, "Don't worry, I'm not going to kill myself or anything. I'm just not happy." I could swear that she muttered, "But it definitely would make life easier if I did", but I decided to pretend like I didn't hear her. She shifted and dropped her legs so that they were sprawled out straight in front of her. "First off, my older sister died because some drunken idiot hit her with his car. She was the closest thing I had to family and she had so much to live for, but her life was taken away faster than a blink. My mom and dad divorced when I was like two years old and my dad got custody, so I barely know my mother. She moves around way too much for me to keep up. It seriously sucks, especially since my older brother lives with her. Well, with my grandma, but he lived with my mother at first. My dad is a bum. He is good for nothing. The only reason I have anything going for me in life is because someone else takes care of his money and I worked multiple jobs in the summer since I was 10. I have a lot saved up, but I'm hoping to only use it as pocket cash and get a full scholarship for college." It was a lot to take in, and how bluntly she explained everything was terrifying. I wanted to intervene and say something, but for some reason, I felt the need to stay quiet and let her speak. She sighed and brought her knees up to her chest, her arms wrapped around her legs. "I only stay with him because if I run away I can be taken back to him since I am not yet 18 years old. Although, the police probably wouldn't bother trying to look for me since I am 17 and my birthday is in five months." She turned and looked at me. "I'm just trying to wait until I'm 18. I want to finish school and get the flip out of here." I had been listening intently, but in this moment, I could feel my eyebrows rise.

"Flip?"

She made a face at me and muttered, "Yes, flip. I don't curse. Saying fudge is overrated so I say flip." I laughed and smiled at her with a toothy grin. She just rolled her eyes and continued.

"My dad is a hopeless alcoholic and my step mom is a disgusting bimbo who uses him for sex and money. She has no motherly instinct whatsoever, so I think it's good that she has never had kids. If they had one together, I would lose my mind. And my dad is always putting me down, making me feel insignificant. Plus, we're always moving around because of his job." She shook her head as tears of what I could only assume to be frustration fell down her face in rivulets.

"How the hell am I supposed to make myself significant if we move faster than I can even think of doing anything significant?" she cried in exasperation. Her hands lifted and she angrily wiped at her eyes to remove her tears. "He tries to hit me, but he's an uncoordinated drunk so he never actually touches me. That doesn't stop him from trying most of the time though."

My eyes widened in surprise at the way she was explaining things. She was saying things so nonchalantly, as if a father trying to abuse his daughter was a normal thing for her. I suppose it is,  I thought sadly. "Then there's this hell," she said, motioning around her. "School. A place where I can escape my dad and stepmother, only to be bored out of my mind by schoolwork and irritated by people that look at me like I'm an alien." I opened my mouth to say something, but she gave me a pointed look that clearly screamed 'shut the heck up.'

"School, the place where people pull you into false relationships and friendships because too many people have raging hormones. Like seriously, hormones are freaking raging here!"

This earned her a chuckle from me. She glanced at me and shot me a small smile, the first genuine one I had ever seen her make. It was so nice to see. I almost wished I had a camera to capture the moment. A beat passed. She stood up and wiped dust off of the seat of her pants and held out her hands to help me up. I placed my hands in hers and she yanked me up. I was not expecting that strength from her, and my face must've shown my surprise because she rolled her eyes at me as she picked up her backpack and swung it over her shoulder.

She started walking away and yelled over her shoulder, "I gotta go to class and I'm sure you do too. Thanks for listening." With that, she threw up a peace sign and ran to her class, leaving no room for me to speak.

~~ We began to hang out more after that day, mainly because I hunted her down and started to greet her in the hallways and sit with her at lunch. I even went as far as to follow her to the library whenever she skipped lunch or had work to do. Of course, she never told me anything more about her family or her past, but I respected that.

Sammie wanted to let her past go, clear her mind of it, even if only temporarily. I understood that. People have various ways of achieving temporary highs and keeping things out of their minds temporarily.

We were seen together almost all the time at school. People started to notice Sammie, which freaked her out a little, but she couldn't get me to leave her alone, so she eventually stopped trying and gave in to what I like to call my “irresistible” charm. She just liked to call me annoying, but I never minded. Now she was seen as the cool, calm and collected, hilarious girl who hung out with me. Eventually, she became best known for her humor and silliness. She wasn't just the girl who hung out with me all the time, but the girl with her own personality that people liked. It was really amazing to see her feel more comfortable and happy in school, especially since it meant I got to see her smile more. January rolled around, and so did her eighteenth birthday. She told me that it was the happiest day of her life, which made me happy that I went through so much to plan it. I had thrown her a small party at my house and took her to the movies to see Dirty Grandpa. I had even bought her a huge easel set with paints, considering how she was quite the artist.

I suggested that it be kept at my house, one because I didn't want anyone at her house to mess with it and secondly because I wanted an excuse for her to come over more often.

Four months after her birthday, we graduated. After graduation, I went home from school and celebrated with my family, but my mind was elsewhere. Of course, it was on Sammie.

I wanted to celebrate with her.

After my mother stopped bombarding me with kisses and my family let me loose, I ran to my room and called Sammie, but the automated voice told me that her number was disconnected. That's weird,  I thought to myself.

Maybe I called the wrong number. I tried again four times, but each time I got the same result. I was so desperate to reach her, especially because I had begun to get scared for her. I was so scared in fact that, despite her warnings to never call her house, I called her house. No one answered. My fear grew. I hadn't seen her since she got her diploma, which was a few hours ago. I quickly changed my clothes (I hadn't been able to get out of my graduation outfit because my mother insisted on taking fifty thousand pictures) and started to leave my room and head over to her house, when I bumped into her easel.

The protective cover fell off and revealed a painting of the two of us laughing while sitting on the roof of my house. I smiled. The picture was taken on her birthday. I had taken the picture with my camera and it was by far my favorite one of us together. Somehow, the picture was the only one that I really felt captured her at her happiest moment and I at mine. I stared at the painting, mesmerized by her skills. Sam hadn't told me what college she was going to, but I knew she got a full scholarship to study fine arts at multiple colleges, and I could definitely see why. The painting looked like it had taken a lot of time and effort and I loved every bit of it. It was amazing how much Sammie could accomplish. I lifted the painting to see if she drew anything new, but I was surprised to see a note. I had given her a key to my house so she could slip in whenever she felt the need to, so that explained why there was a note, but she would've had no time to do it unless she wrote it sometime earlier today. With a shrug, I began reading the note: Austin- I'm leaving. In fact, you're probably reading this while I'm on my way out of here. Thank you so much for being kind to me that day in September. I will never forget it. You're the reason I feel like I can keep moving on with my life. I never thought I would amount to anything, but you showed me that I could do whatever I wanted. I never thought I could do anything with my art, but I got a full scholarship! Isn't that crazy? Thank you so much for everything. Really, I do appreciate it. I'm going to miss you a lot. Hell, I miss you even as I write this note while you sleep just inches away from me on your bed. You were also the first person to show me what love felt like, so thank you. I know we never dated or anything and I have no idea if you feel the same way, but I decided I should tell you anyway. I'm sorry for not personally saying goodbye to you, but I... I just couldn't do it. It'd be too hard. Just know that I really do love and appreciate you. I hope you understand. Maybe we'll meet again later on in life. Maybe I'll really amount to something like you said and you can prove me wrong. Keep following your dream of being a famous guitarist with your band, I'm sure you guys will be even more popular than you are now and go down as one of the best boy bands in history. With love and joy, -Your best friend (and hopefully first love) Sammie. By the time Austin finished reading the note, he was full on sobbing. Because nothing hurt more than losing his best friend, the girl he had fallen in love with his senior year of high school. Some would even call it love at first sight.


“I’m worried about Annabelle.” The matter-of-fact statement was discharged into an otherwise silent room. Its recipient, a salt-n-pepper-haired gentleman in his early forties, was intently glued to the computer screen before him.

“Yeah…” came his slow reply. “Yeah. She’s had to leave all of her friends. She knows no one here. She has very little interest in getting to know anyone. She has very little interests for that matter--” The woman, clearly Annabelle’s mother, stopped her pacing and ranting to stare directly at her husband. “Parker! Are you even listening to me? I’m talking about your daughter here. Aren’t you concerned?” “Yes, honey,” he responded, pulling his glasses down to the tip of his nose to peer intently at his computer screen.

“Yes…what?” “Yes???” “Ugh! You are so frustrating!” “Melanie, honey, don’t you think you are being a little dramatic?” “Dramatic? Annabelle is a ten-year-old with no friends. She needs friends, Parker!”

“You need friends,” Parker muttered quietly behind his wife’s back. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing, Honey. I hear you. Annabelle needs friends. What do you propose?”

Parker had been a participant in these conversations before. He snapped his laptop shut and looked at his wife. It would do no good to explain that they had just moved to the area and Annabelle needed time to make friends. That the start of the new school year was still over a month away. Reasonable Melanie knew all of these things. This was not reasonable Melanie. This was “I already have a solution” Melanie. The only way to end this type of conversation was to get his wife to tell him what she had already decided. It was a matter of practicality. All he had to do now was listen and agree.

“Well, now that you ask. I do have an idea. You remember me telling you about my friend Amanda? You remember, surely. She teaches drama. We used to be pretty good friends back in high school. Did you know she was a real-life beauty queen? I told you that. I’m sure I did. Anyway, she made it all the way to Miss Georgia several years in a row. That was always her thing. Beauty pageants. In fact, the first thing I remember about Amanda was how all the girls in our class, this was back in middle school, didn’t really like Amanda because she was always winning all these beauty pageants. Can you believe anyone could dislike someone because they won too many beauty pageants? How silly! Teenage girls can be so ridiculous, and it really was ridiculous because Amanda was always such a nice person. But don’t ask my friend Cecily about that because evidently they ended up having some falling out about a beauty pageant after high school. It’s ironic though because they might never have even become close enough to have a falling out about a beauty pageant if I hadn’t had to move schools during my eighth-grade year. Of course, I moved back during my ninth-grade year… But that’s exactly what I’m talking about!” Parker blinked. Twice. He really didn’t know what his wife was talking about anymore. He would wait. If you don’t follow, just wait. After too many years of marriage, he knew that this really was the best way--the precursor to enlightenment. So, he waited until his wife gave the signal. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long. After about twenty seconds, his wife gave him “the look.” The look of exasperation. The look that said, “you must be an idiot.”  It was a look Parker knew quite well. But, it was also a look that indicated his wife would spill soon, and then he could go back to doing what he really wanted--searching for obscure baseball cards on eBay.

Sure enough, Melanie didn’t disappoint.

“About Annabelle. Moving! It’s hard to make new friends. She needs something to help her meet people her age.” “And your friend--Amanda--she plays a role how?” Parker asked, hoping this would sound like interest and not confusion. “Well, every summer Amanda comes back to town and helps direct a youth theater camp. I told you, that’s what she teaches. Drama. Theater. The Stage.” “And you want Annabelle to participate?” Parker asked, almost positive he had gotten it right. “Yep.” “Okay.” “Okay?” “Okay! Wonderful! Annabelle is going to have a blast. She just loves all of that drama stuff. Really, Parker, I don’t know why you always make things so difficult.” “I don’t know, honey, men just suck like that sometimes. Love you though.” “Love you too,” Melanie responded sweetly, brushing the top of Parker’s forehead with her lips. “Okay, babe, I’m going to go tell Annabelle the good news.”

“Wonderful. I’m sure she will be thrilled.” Thrilled might have been a bit of an overstatement, but Melanie had high hopes. If anyone could get Annabelle out of her shell it was Amanda.

*** “Okay, so you have your snacks and extra water bottle?” “Yep.” “Are you feeling excited?’” Shoulder shrug. “Come on. Give it a chance. You’ll like it. For me?” Melanie looked at her daughter who stared at the floorboard of their Chevy Traverse. She didn’t seem to be in a hurry to move.

“Come on. I have to sign you in any way. Let’s walk together.” At her mother’s insistence, Annabelle schlumped her way out of the car. Once inside, she looked timidly around at the group of kids already gathered. No one approached her.

Melanie signed her daughter into camp and gave her a quick once-over. She wore a baggy hoodie, dark leggings, and a pair of old beat-up black Converse shoes. The shoes were scuffed and worn, and the shoestrings were carelessly tied and dragging the ground. Melanie started to feel nervous. What if Annabelle doesn’t make friends? What if Amanda can’t help her? It had been over a decade since Melanie had seen Amanda in person. Throughout the years, she had followed her mostly on Facebook, occasionally sending a message or posting a “Happy Birthday” meme to her page. Amanda didn’t seem like she had changed a bit since high school, at least not according to social media. Melanie just hoped she still remembered what it was like to not quite fit in. Maybe she could use that to help her daughter bridge this new culture gap she had moved into.

“Mom?” “Yeah, baby?” “Is that your friend?” Annabelle pointed to a tall, slender brunette with dark-rimmed glasses and a huge, beauty pageant smile. That was Amanda all right. Melanie smiled and nodded at her old friend. As she did so, Amanda bent down to talk to two children. They looked over to where Melanie stood with Annabelle. Within moments, Amanda disappeared behind a wall partition and the two children ran over to greet them.

“Hi! My name’s Cal.” “I’m Alyssa. You’re Annabelle. Our mom told us your mom was a friend of hers. We’ll take you back to the theater stage. Follow us.” “Okay,” Annabelle agreed, shrugging as if this were the most normal thing she had done that day.

Melanie watched as the three young thespians ran off to meet up with the rest of the campers, disappearing in the same direction as Amanda had. Melanie smiled. She knew this would be good for Annabelle. She couldn’t wait to hear how her day would go.

She was not disappointed.

Melanie arrived to pick Annabelle up about six hours later. Her daughter was full of smiles and tales about Cal and Alyssa. Evidently, the three had been thick as thieves, which was great, but Melanie had really hoped Annabelle would make local friends. Ultimately, though, she guessed even camp-only friends were better than no friends. Besides, she hadn’t seen Annabelle this excited about anything in months.

As she listened to her daughter’s prattling, Melanie’s cell phone pinged with a message. Amanda: Hey, girl. We should catch dinner while I’m down. Melanie sent a quick reply indicating that she would enjoy that, and she thanked her for looking out for Annabelle. Amanda responded immediately with an emoji and a text reading “The kids loved her!” Each day afterward, Melanie took an eager Annabelle to camp. She was loving it. She had decided to try out for a speaking part, but what she liked most was that she and Cal had been pretty much allowed to write their skit by themselves. Melanie was really excited for her daughter. She was excited, but it also reminded her of what she had missed out on as an adult. Melanie used to love the theater. In fact, it was Amanda who talked her into her own theatrical debut. Thinking about losing that part of her younger self made her a little sad now. Perhaps she should check out the local theater opportunities once the family was completely settled. She just didn’t know if she would still have what it takes to get up in front of an audience.

For now, she would just celebrate her daughter’s success. Everything was going according to plan. Everything except catching up with her old friend. Every time Melanie went to pick Annabelle up, Amanda was nowhere to be found. And she still hadn’t received a follow-up message about her earlier dinner invitation. .

“Honey, do you think Amanda is blowing me off?” “How would I know?” “You wouldn’t know . I just want your opinion.” “Ye…no?” “Oh, my god! You are never any help. It’s just weird. She was the one who brought up going out to dinner. She won’t be in town forever. I’m sure she will be going back home after the kids' camp. I don’t know. It’s kind of rude. Don’t you think it’s rude?” “Melanie, I don’t have friends.” Melanie’s husband made the statement as if it were an answer to everything. It was her turn to just stare and blink. Unlike Melanie, however, Parker didn’t expound on his statement. “Whatever,” she finally responded, clearly irritated. “Honey, don’t be that way. I don’t know. And does it matter? Has Annabelle had a great time?” Melanie thought about this and nodded. It was true. The whole point of the camp was to help Annabelle transition to their move and to help her break out of her shell. It had not been about her catching up with old friends. Even with this logic, the brushoff still stung a bit. Melanie was used to having friends close by to catch a movie or drink with. Like her daughter, she had left pretty much all of her friends (at least adulthood friends) behind in a state two thousand miles away. She missed them. “No, you’re right. And I am really excited about Annabelle’s performance.” To Melanie’s delight, Annabelle’s performance stole the show. All of their extended family showed up to support Annabelle’s theatrical debut. It was even better than her own. Annabelle was animated. She was confident. And she performed as a male character. The juxtaposition of her appearance in male attire (complete with beard and mustache) with her slight feminine frame was hilarious. No one could believe it when she doffed her hat during closing credits. This girl could do anything. In one performance, all of Melanie’s concerns about Annabelle acclimating to a new school and home state were relieved.

“You did such a great job!” Melanie exclaimed as Annabelle exited the theater.

Annabelle responded by deftly side-swiping her mother’s hug attempt. At least I can count on some things, Melanie thought, smiling harder at her daughter’s rebellious independence. “Hey, can we go over to Cal’s grandparent’s house today? They are grilling and have invited us to swim.” “They have?” “Yep. Mrs. Rogers said she would text you.” As if on cue, Melanie’s phone pinged. Sure enough, there it was. “Whatcha think, Parker? Up for a swim?” “Well, I feel like I have to meet this Amanda chick. I probably won’t swim, but sure, I’ll go.” “Yay! Let’s go!” Annabelle shouted, more excited than she had been in weeks. “Okay, swimsuits and let’s head on over!” Despite Annabelle’s insistence to “hurry up” as they grabbed what they needed from home, Melanie still managed to arrive a little late to the cookout. Pride had gotten the better of her. Although it had been twenty years since Melanie had visited Amanda’s parent’s house, she was sure she could get them there from memory. As it turns out, pretty much remembering where someone lives will not get you to where someone exactly lives. She ended up having to text Amanda for the address. When they arrived, the children were in the pool, and the burgers were already on the grill. “Annabelle!!!” Both Cal and Alyssa greeted Annabelle enthusiastically as she exited the family SUV.

“Hey, Melanie!” Mr. Larry called from the grill. “Long time, no see!” “Too long,” Melanie replied. She had always enjoyed talking with Amanda’s dad, and the site of him now made her think of her own father who had passed the year before. She choked back a little sob that threatened to surface and turned to where Amanda’s kids were already pulling Annabelle into the pool. “Where’s Amanda?” Melanie asked pulling up a chair. “Oh, I think she is with her youngest, Mabel.” From the back porch, Melanie could hear Amanda bartering with the small child. “No, mama. I don't wanna ‘wim,” Mabel whined as she tried to pull her mother back through the door.

“Mabel, you just said you did.” “I’m scared.” “No, you’re not.” “I am.” Melanie watched as her friend argued with her three-year-old daughter. She was clearly frustrated and exhausted. “Can I help?” Melanie asked. “Oh, hi. I don’t think so. She’s just really tired.” “I don’t wanna nap!” Mabel wailed at her mom’s words. “I see,” Melanie observed. “That’s a tough age.” “You’re telling me.”   As Melanie watched her high school friend wrestle with her daughter, the two attempted to catch up. Small talk included the usual: Jobs are great. Kids are great. Husbands are great. Everything is great. Soon, Melanie and Amanda ran out of things to say. In fact, it was almost a blessing that Amanda fought with Mabel, as it helped break their awkward silence.  Luckily for Melanie, Mr. Larry was full of conversation. He was a great storyteller, and some of his tales even included Melanie’s parents or her brother-in-law. It really was a small world when you were from a small town. Melanie was enjoying the walk down memory lane with her host. At one point, Mr. Larry even showed her the pool house shower curtain that had been made from plays Amanda had starred in. Several were plays in which Melanie had also been cast. In fact, she was so absorbed in her conversation with Amanda’s dad that she hadn’t seen Amanda slip off herself.

“Where did Amanda go?” Melanie asked when realization set in. “I think she finally went to lay Mabel down.” Melanie nodded.

When it was time to eat, Amanda did not return.

It wasn’t until after everyone had tired of swimming and the food had been put away that Amanda surfaced again. Her greeting this time was a goodbye. “It was so good of you to come by, Melanie. The kids really love your daughter. I think she has a lot of talent on stage, too.” “Oh, yeah?” “Yeah. You’ll have to get Annabelle involved in something throughout the year. I can’t wait to see her at camp again next year.”  “Absolutely. Well, thanks for having us. I think that’s our cue.” “Oh, I’m not running you off. Stay as long as you’d like.” “No, that's okay. We need to get back.” “Well let’s get together again sometime.” “Absolutely.” Melanie and her husband said their final goodbyes and they packed up their things, practically dragging Annabelle away. Their daughter had found kindred spirits in Amanda’s children. Much like Melanie used to feel toward Amanda. Today, she realize that perhaps they weren’t such kindred spirits after all. Some people you can go years without seeing, and when you do see them, it’s like no time has passed.

It had not been like this with Amanda.

It made Melanie a little sad. She wondered what her husband thought of her former friend. “So, what did you think of Amanda?” “The verdict is still out. She wasn’t around much though.” “Nope.” “Is that typical Amanda behavior?” ‘Who knows.I feel like I don’t know anything anymore. I feel like everything is changing.” “I could tell something was bothering you. You looked sad when Mr. Larry showed you that t-shirt curtain from your old plays. Is that what is bothering you?” “Ugh! I guess it is just everything. It was sad to see those old t-shirts. I used to love acting.” “You still could.” “I know. I thought about community theater, but honestly, I don’t have the confidence or skill anymore. I’m just becoming an old woman. Not just an old woman. An old woman with an expanding waistline and thinning hair no less! Did you see Amanda? Still just as skinny as ever. But it wasn’t just that. I miss my friends. I’ve been so focused on Annabelle that I hadn’t allowed myself to think about how hard this has been on me. Like I said, I guess I’m just struggling because everything is changing.” Parker looked at his wife. “First, I’ve never cared for curveless women, so I’m thankful for that expanding waistline. Second, you can do whatever you set out to do. If that’s community theater, great. Double great because it’s something you can now share with Annabelle. Third, you’re right. Everything is changing. But today you had to know that it was changing in a good way.”

As Parker said this, Melanie followed her husband's gaze to their daughter. Annabelle had crashed in the backseat. She had crashed from a day of activity and hard play. This would not have happened weeks ago. Everything was changing. And that was a good thing.


The inside of the restaurant made her gulp, standing in the doorway. But the host had already spotted her, and there was no backing out. There were waiters in nice pressed white shirts and black pants carrying covered platters around. She expected them all to have small mustaches, but was disappointed to find they all looked like normal people.

Her phone buzzed again. I’m at the table in the back. It's private. She grimaced a little, but ran a hand through her hair and took a breath. She needed to do this. Striding to the back, she looked around. He had sent her a picture of his face, she wasn’t stupid, but the restaurant was dark and it was hard to make out what people looked like. “Emily?” A man asked, approaching her. He had soft brown eyes and an easy smile. It helped that he was tall, taller than her in her heels, with tousled hair and well put together outfit. The only criticism she could have was that his face felt stretched across the bone, like it was too small compared to his skeleton.

“You must be Richard,” she said, smiling up at him.

He put a hand on her waist, causing her smile to flicker, but he kept it there, an ever steady presence, as he led her to a table tucked behind a half wall. She set her bag down slowly, her hands clasping around it like a safety blanket. He had already pulled a chair out for her, so she sat. “What do you want to order?” He leaned across the table, propping his chin up with one hand. She laughed in pure shock, covering her mouth with her hand. “I haven’t even looked at the menu.” “You seemed like someone who would look it up online to know exactly what to order when you got here.” She hesitated over the menu, her hand posed to pick it up. She had done exactly that. That was the type of person she was. But she picked up the menu and flipped it open, setting it on the table. “What would that say about me?” He had to sit up higher to see her over the menu. “That you’re practical.” “What do you suggest to eat?” Emily asked, trying to move past the analysis of her.

“The cordon bleu is really good if you would like a chicken dish, and the filet comes with an amazing sauce. They also have nice pasta dishes if you weren’t looking for meat tonight,” he said, lowering the menu she had set up and pointing them out.  He was just trying to help. He was just trying to show her the items. Another flash of that sweet smile was ice on her fraying nerves. He rubbed his cheek. One of the waiters pulled away from their route to talk to them. “Would you like the wine list? Or any appetizers to start?” “I would like one bottle of your finest red, ma’am,” Richard said.

Emily felt her face flush as she quickly waved her hands. “No need for that.” “It’s my treat.” She leaned over the table whispering away from the waiter. “But I won’t be able to afford my half of the bill.” “Your half? Where did you get the impression that you had to pay?” “I always pay half my bill on dates.” So guys didn’t think they were owed something from her. “I invited you to a nice dinner, I shall pay. I am not going to put you out this money, that’s not the gentlemanly thing to do.” Emily grit her teeth. “Fine.” The waiter, sensing tension, made herself scarce. Richard relaxed back into the seat, flashing her another one of his smiles with another rub of his cheek, the other one this time. “I must thank you for coming, I know most girls don’t make a habit of going out with their customers.” “It’s not common.” “How is the job? You always seem so chipper when I come in.” “It’s all part of the job.” He leaned forward, his eyes sparkling. “So you’re unhappy.” “I never said that.” Emily chose her next words very carefully. “It’s not everything I want out of life, but it gets me through the now.” “I could say the same thing about my job,” he said, sitting back and rolling his eyes.

“Where do you work again?” “Marketing.” “A lot of guys work in marketing around here.” He smiled. “It’s a big market.” The waiter came back with the bottle of wine, displaying it and pouring two glasses. Richard grabbed his glass, swirling it once, then took a drink from it. Emily picked hers up and just watched the dark red liquid floating inside.

“Do you know what you would like to order?” The waiter asked.

“The pasta primavera,” Emily said.

“The filet. And thank you, so much,” Richard said, quickly turning back to Emily. “Where are you from?”

“The Chicago area. Didn’t go to the city a lot, mostly stayed around it.” “And now you’re here? Far trip.” Emily offered a tight smile. “Needed to get away.” “I’m born and bred here. Whole family is still here too. Do you like a big family?” “Never had one, the family was so spread out. I guess it’d probably be fine.” Richard spread his arms wide. “You never need to meet them, a whole bunch of assholes, the lot.” Emily didn’t have a response to that. Richard was plowing ahead before she had the chance to formulate one.

“I guess what I really want to get to is the root of who Emily is. What does she like?” “Well I like cats over dogs, violets are my favorite type of flower, and I prefer tea over coffee.” “Violets are your favorite flower?” Richard asked, tilting his head to the side. “You looked more like a daisies girl.” “I used to like daisies, can’t anymore.” Richard tented his fingers on the table, staring her down. “Those aren’t the roots of you though.” “I guess I don’t feel comfortable sharing my roots on the first date. They aren’t things you need to know.” “Have you ever shared it with anyone though?” His soft eyes sparkled again, but she decided it was in a way that made a chill run through her body. “Friends, I guess.” “Never a romantic partner?” “None that have mattered.” “I think you are scared to open up. To reach out and find love again. How badly did he hurt you?” “What are you talking about?” “I think you have a complicated relationship with your mother, ever since your father died. I think you moved to get away from those feelings instead of facing it. I think you got a degree you hate so kept your college coffee shop job instead of looking for any real work. I think you dated a good man, who you pushed to the side because you weren’t ready for a real relationship.” Emily stared at Richard, where he stood, half folded over the table, panting. She saw red. “What the hell? Did Jared put you up to this? I told that little weasel to get out of my life. I knew it was too good to be true when you asked me out. My friends wanted me to get out there again, and what, you trick me because that jackass put you up to it?” She stood, grabbing her purse. “I’m not going through another second of this abuse. I’m done. Have a goodnight.” The entire way home was a blur. She got in the car and apparently started it because next thing she knew she was sitting in her driveway. She put it in park, tears rolling down her cheeks, staining her face. Three times now. Three dates that had gone poorly. She wondered if the other two had been set up by Jared too, they were both attractive men in marketing, she was just shocked that he had any friends willing to do it, or any friends at all. First the texts he had sent, now this? Maybe it was time to exit the dating scene entirely. She entered her home and immediately fell asleep.

But after a week of crying and throwing little pity parties, she put on a cute dress and dolled herself up, for no one but herself. There was a bookstore that just opened up on the corner that she wanted to go look at.

When she got there, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around, there was a man in a sweater and jeans, holding out violets for her. “Can I ask you for a date?” He was a pretty man. Slick black hair and hazel eyes. The only problem she could see on him was his face drooped a little bit, like there was extra skin over the bones.


When my father asked me if she would be okay, I said yes - because really, there was nothing else to say. Because I could intuit that he wasn’t so much as asking for medical updates, as he was a reassurance of faith, our faith, that she would be okay. That she would sit up from that bed, any day now, and would pull out the long transparent tubes that now sustained her breath. Her voice would be croaky at first, hoarse from the months of unuse, and then she would try again, and ask for water, which I would rush to bring to her, and after she’d had a sip or two, she would look up at us both, like no time had passed, and say, “mes chéris,” in her usual way, smiling with that bright efficacy to which we were once accustomed, and hold us tight. But this was fantasy because she’d been in that bed for months now, because the doctors who used to say, “any day now,” with the confidence of gods now avoided our eyes and gave the tight-lipped smile people who weren’t sure how to talk about a tragedy did, and this was a tragedy - that my mother, 45 years of age, with bouncy curls, a wide smile, and skin that used to glow with the vibrancy of the sun, should be lying down here, pale, almost blue, breathing with big ugly machines that creaked on every inhalation. I am 17 years old, I’ve had friends who’ve suffered tragedies - an aunt dying from an accident, a parent who battled with cancer, and I know from their experience that if my mother were to die, it would be an enormous tragedy, like a loss that I would never fully recover from - monumental, and life-defining. I know this theoretically as I know it deep in my bones, but what I’m more afraid of is that if she were to die now, I would lose my father too. It won’t be long, the next day, two weeks, two months, maybe six at best, and he would be gone too. In biology class, they explain the concept of symbiosis - two organisms of different species who depend on each other to live. But lately, I’ve been thinking, maybe it’s not so much physical dependence on the other specie for some kind of protection or benefit, as it is about the reliance for identity. Like the symbiont goby fish whose whole identity lies in informing the blind shrimp that predators lurk - take it away from that, and he’d probably survive, but who was it without the identity of protector? How would it navigate this world with no blind shrimp to forewarn? Who would my father be without my mother? My father still? But I'm not so sure about that, at best he would be a robot, not the cool talking ones, but one of those robot vacuum cleaners that move around the room cleaning until they hit a wall, and then course-correct in the other direction, not that they want to be there, cleaning and loving it, but that the wall had nudged them and they had no choice but to move and clean until their battery dies. I have this fear that my father had only been my father because he loved my mother so, with any other woman, he might not have tried at all. Perhaps love is not even the right word, as I’m not sure if he fell in love like my friends do - seeing someone in their element, liking them because they were good at football, or they were pretty, or funny, and you wanted to be around them all the time, even though they made your heart flutter and your speech stutter. My parents didn’t fall in love like that, in fact, that version of events would seem so silly to them that I’m not sure they would recognise it at all.

They’d met when they were twelve, on a boat of all places. Even I still find it hard to comprehend, that two orphans displaced by a war that had razed down their homes and their parents along with it, should serendipitiously find themselves together on the same boat. But there were many orphans on that boat, my mother had once clarified, the only serendipity, if there was any at all, was that she had sat next to my father for days on a small rocky boat with stretches of sea, and sea ahead, with no land in sight. And when they’d finally gotten rescued and found themselves on solid ground, she hadn’t known how to walk the new land without him by her side.

There was no fluttering heart, if there was, it was purely physiological, and not hormonal. It was as if all those days lumped together at sea - the darkness and unkindness of it, the uncertainty of the journey ahead and the slowness of it, the numbness of children who now had no one but themselves in this world - had merged them together, or perhaps melded their souls, and had their bodies feeling what the other felt, that it was hard to distinguish where my mother stopped and where my father began. It was a synchronicity they hadn’t learned, but somehow acquired, and perfected over time as they survived numerous refugee camps and hard winters of a strange land. Most times I’d hear my mother say, “Yes, that’s right,” and nod to a question my father had asked but somehow forgotten to voice, and I would say, “Use words for those who don’t speak Elvish, please”, and they’d laugh. I was in middle school before I realised that they perhaps didn’t need words, and they only used them for my benefit.

When Mother slumped six months ago, we were all together at the bakery, cleaning before we closed for the night. The plan had been to work with them there before I go to Uni the next year. Father had made a joke about something, (as he used to, he was a big jester, and Mother was too) about one of the customers asking for a particular bread type, something, I can’t recall now. I had been looking at Father and laughing, and I think I must have seen Mother slumping on his face before I saw her hit the ground - because his face was frozen midway, his eyes in shock and lifeless like he’d had a mini-stroke even before her own body had registered it. He’s a shell of the person I used to know now - his typical dad jokes are gone; he spends all hours by her side punctuated only by the nurses' insistence that he take a break, but he wouldn’t leave until I got there. I still go to the bakery and bake bread for some hours because we need the money, and at night I’d take over the shift for him, and while he’s gone, I would lean in and whisper to Mother, “If you can hear me, please come back to us. He’s not doing well without you. You know he won’t survive without you.” Like a plea, and a prayer rolled into one, I would whisper it into her ears, desperate for her to hear me and accept it. I’m five years older than they were when they lost their parents and were brutally tossed into a raging, stormy world. I have five years on them now, maybe this was evolutionary progress - that they’d given me five more years than they ever got with their parents. And I wasn’t being shoved on a boat bound for a strange land with nothing but a bottle of fresh water and a morsel of bread. They’d given me a great life here, an ordinary safe childhood, which was in itself extraordinary, and they’d made me laugh, which used to amaze me, that people who had suffered so much tragedy should have the ability to be so blasé with life and laugh and laugh till their belly hurt. They’d also worked night and day and built something of their own here - a bakery they were proud of, kneading dough and taking pride in customers loving something they made with their hands. I have inherited that pride, and perhaps all of this is enough. Around 2 am, like clockwork, my father tapped me - he was back from home, where I knew he barely slept, and I shook my head before he asked as if to say no changes, nothing had changed since the three hours he’d been gone. And he nodded, sat beside me, and took her hand in his, “do you think she will be okay?” he asked, like he always asked, his gaze fixed on her pale face. I nodded, vibrantly, with the confidence of gods, and said, "Yes, of course, she will be", and he gave me his rueful smile, and for a second I thought he believed me, and I convinced myself that this symbiosis, however weak, was safe for today, and today would not be the day I lose them.


Joe was a man of few words, but the ones he spoke were more valuable than anyone else’s. His speech was in bold, swaying in italics, in constant capitalization and always underlined. To me, at least.

            It was hard to even hear him sometimes. I was used to leaning in, getting closer to his dark, ever-changing hair and the juniper smell he stole from the woods. The extra effort was worth it time and time again. In groups, sometimes he would duck his head to mine and mutter something only meant for me, and I would laugh, drawing attention to us that made his hands plunge into his pockets. He smiled nonchalantly until everyone looked away, then he’d always cast a look at me.

Really?  My lack of subtlety was always cause for admonishment.

            Joe and I have always been that way. He’s quiet, I’m too loud, and that doesn’t seem to bother him. Our friendship has lasted years; different towns, a different state once, and far through the boyfriends I’ve had. His eyes have even stayed the same—brown, intense, and like a pair of hands that hold everything they can until it hurts. They make me forget what I’m about to say next, more times than I could count. He’s tall, a bit nerdy, built himself a little cabin in the woods and is cleverer than I’ll ever be.

            I just wonder if he looks at everyone like that, if he speaks to everyone the same.

            My friends tell me I have him in the bag.

            “He

clearly  likes you!”

            “Guys don’t [have inside jokes, give you those looks, put up with rambling] unless they like you.”             I can hardly let myself believe them. And yet, I do. The way he watches me in a room brimming with friends or even in a subway full of strangers—I don’t think it’s platonic. He’s never seemed to notice the parts of me men gravitate to, instead I catch him looking at my hair, my lips, my neck, my hands. Always with the grasping, absorbing look I’ve only ever seen in him.

            I’m meeting him today for dinner, at his cabin. It’s small, but clean and remarkably well-decorated for a man that rotates through the same five flannels and two pairs of jeans. He works from his computer, designing bridges and gates on a program that makes my head hurt to look at. Joe’s never hidden his view on my job. Ethics and Compliance at a major retailer, talking on the phone for most of my work day. He physically recoils when I bring it up, grinning when he asks how I still manage to speak as much as I do. I counter by asking how he isn’t miserably lonely, living in a remote area without anything but virtual bridges to look at. He’d shrug, pursing his lips.

            I decided to dress casually, opting for warmth over style like Joe did. I brought a bottle of wine and a deck of cards, hoping he would be up for some sort of game though I didn’t know any myself. I liked being there after the sun went down, when his cabin got even cozier and where I hoped his hand might linger on my shoulder or close over mine.

            The drive was long, but always worth it. I walked on his carved pathway in the snow, the gusting Maine wind making me nearly sprint to his door. I let myself in, stamping the snow off my shoes. A golden warmth greeted me, and it didn’t just come from the fire.             “Joe!” I called, not seeing him perched by the fireplace as usual.

            “What?” he barked back from the loft.

            “I’m here!” I smiled, heading for the fireplace. His footsteps bounded down the wooden stairs, and I inhaled the familiar piney scent of his cabin.

            “Amy, what a surprise. Help yourself to the fire, I guess,” he glanced away, grinning. I watched his back as he peered into his oven.             “I brought wine. What’re you making?”             “Lasagna?” he was bent into a crouch, palms on the oven glass. The concern on his face made me laugh.

            He turned around, confused. “What?”             “Nothing. How’re your bridges?” I smiled, sitting on the lip of the stone hearth. Joe sighed and sat next to me, glancing back at the oven before speaking.             “Not structurally sound,” he said, turning to me, “but that’s a problem for tomorrow.”             He grinned, making his cheeks dimple. My heart crumpled and every word I’d ever known was momentarily erased from my memory. I smiled.

            “How’re your...assault cases?” he asked, grimacing. His eyes held mine, curious, genuine and possessing a focus my brain could never compete with. I felt my cheeks warm.             “Good!” I immediately blushed, faltering. “Not

good , but I mean I’m getting them sorted. Talking to managers and CEO’s, all day, on the phone, getting tough cases sorted out, it’s very rewarding—” I paused when his lips twitch into a suppressed smile. “Lots of talking, every day,” I continued, making him groan. “And then I leave and go out, with more people, who talk a lot, and we have fun, and then I wake up and go to work—”             Joe cowered away, throwing his hands out to protect himself. “Stop! I will faint,” he lurched from the hearth, circling back to his oven.             I giggled menacingly, the fire warm and comforting at my back. This was what I wanted. Here, with Joe, just us and the woods. He turned and gave me another grin, making my heart implode again. I wanted it so desperately. Him, today, tomorrow and every single day after that until death do us part. I saw it all with him almost two years ago.

            No one really believed me, so I stopped bringing it up. My friends tease, but they don’t really know the truth. Quiet, strong, wholesome Joe was very far from what anyone expected of me. They assume fire goes with fire, and that I’ll forever want someone to explode with. I may burn bright, but Joe is like coals, silently smoldering with a ferocity I can’t explain.

            He crouched by the oven again, worry crossing his face. His hair was getting long and brushing at the nape of his neck in coffee-colored waves.

            “Amy,” he said, his back to me, “come look at the lasagna.”             I did as I was told, forcing down giggles at his expense. Only taxes made me that nervous.             I crouched next to him, our socked feet nearly touching. My shoulder was pressed to his, and I wondered if he noticed. Did he smell my perfume?             “I think it looks okay,” I said, not sure what to look for. I saw a pan full of something with cheese on it, cheese that was nearing a burnt shade of brown. “Maybe take it out? Don’t want the cheese burning.”             “Amen to that,” Joe stood, pulling oven mitts out of a drawer. He opened the oven with a flourish, making me laugh again.

            He managed to keep the lasagna un-burnt and I was surprised at his first attempt turning out so well. I told him so, and his eyes skittered away from mine when he smiled. He sucked at taking compliments.

            We broke out the wine and sat by his fireplace, cross-legged on the carpet. He gave me one of his blankets to wrap around my shoulders, and I was elated to see that the sun had long since sank under the horizon. The urge to scoot closer to him was getting stronger with every minute. I set my wine glass to the side, not wanting to make a fool of myself if I paired the urge with an alcohol-induced lack of impulse control. I grabbed the cards from my purse instead, brandishing the deck in my hand.             “Cards?” Joe said, his wine glass balancing precariously on his knee. He had just finished a story involving a rowdy group of civil engineers and breaking his rare streak of talking was something I didn’t do often.             “Yeah, you know any games?”             Joe shrugged, taking them from me. “Not really,” he said slowly, “I might know Uno.”             “Too bad those aren’t Uno cards,” I said, my idea of a fun, potentially flirty evening fading.

            Joe nodded, scowling sarcastically. “Why didn’t you just bring bocce ball?”

            I rolled my eyes, tucking the cards back into my purse. “I know a game we could play. A game that takes nothing but our brains.”             Joe raised his brows, taking a sip from his glass before setting it on the hearth. He gazed at me, and I nearly stumbled over what I was going to say.             “Truth or Dare,” I smiled coyly, laughing when he groaned.

            “Amy, we’re twenty-six,” he laughed, but threw his hands up. “Whatever. Let’s go. You first.”             I was surprised he agreed. Surprised and encouraged. He knew what this game could entail and he agreed anyway; maybe I was right. I felt another strong urge to squeeze him, sit closer to him, or just touch his hair.

            “Okay. Truth or Dare,” I grinned, pulling the blanket around my head.             “Dare,” he said immediately. I was caught off guard.             I blew air out of my cheeks, looking around at his tiny cabin. There weren’t many dare-able activities to conjure up.

I dare you to go sit at your desk and spin in the chair.

Not very threatening.

            Joe watched me think, seeming to enjoy the time it was taking me. Before I could start blushing I thought of something.             “I dare you to go get me a scoop of snow.”             “No,” he said, scoffing.

            “No?”             “Absolutely not, it’s too cold,” he gave me a dimpled grin, but I was disappointed. That’s not how the game worked.             “Okay...truth, then?” I laughed, pulling at the tassels of the blanket.

            Joe groaned. “Fine.”             “Hmm,” I put my hands over my eyes, feigning deep concentration though the question was on the tip of my tongue. “Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”             He looked surprised. “I dunno. I just don’t,” he reached for his glass, casually shrugging before taking a sip. “Truth or Dare.”             “Joe. That was an awful explanation.”             “I just...” he started, looking progressively more uncomfortable. “I guess I’m unlikable?”             I laughed. “You’re very likeable. And I pick Truth, too.”             Joe looked away, clearing his throat. I loved how easy it was to make him turn pink and become uncomfortable. He was so bad at hiding it.

            “Okay, um...” he looked up at the ceiling, squinting. He had a nice side profile. A strong jaw, cute nose and a short beard that always melded perfectly with his features. I looked away into the fire before he could catch me looking.

            “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”             I gave him a look. He wasn’t being very original.             “Come on. Haven’t you had, like, five in the past two years? Not that that’s a bad thing,” he rushed, seeing my face warm. “I just mean, someone like you, it’s gotta be easy to get who you want, right? So why no boy?”             “Someone like me?” I repeated, putting my hand to my chest. He froze, and I could see his face go another shade paler.             “Amy, seriously, I meant that in a good way, it came out bad but I didn’t—”             “It’s okay,” I laughed, watching confusion spread over his face. “Joe. I know what you meant.”             His whole body relaxed. “Thank God. Okay, so then why?”             It was my turn to shrug.

Those guys weren’t you. No one is.

“They aren’t...” I started, my eyes staring off into nothing.

            “Rich enough? Hot enough?” Joe deadpanned, finishing off his glass. He poured himself another one while I scoffed. I loved when he let this side of himself show. No one realized how funny he could be.

You, they aren’t you.

I wanted to say it, and if I hadn’t stopped myself earlier the wine may have pulled the answer off my tongue.

            “Not up to my standards,” I finished, sniffing prissily. He laughed. “Your turn.”             “That wasn’t a very good answer—” he started, but stopped after I gave him a look. “Alright, fine. Truth.”             He perched his chin on his knee, watching me. The fire flickered in his eyes in amber sparks, and his cheeks had a warm, wine-induced glow. I wanted to sit here with him forever. He was safety, joy, and he was home. The very cabin we sat in he built from nothing, never saying a word about it to anyone. Every guy I knew would be eagerly spouting that story for years. Joe wasn’t like that. He built cabins, held open doors, tipped generously and never made me feel like anything less than a person with value. And I loved him for it. I couldn’t take not knowing anymore.             In one impulsive moment, I blurted it out. “Do you love me?”             His eyes creased as his smile dimpled. He laughed, and I smiled, not sure what he was thinking. I felt like my heartbeat was audible, banging in my chest as panic swept through me. I shouldn’t have said it. I had a very strong urge to vomit.             “Amy,” he started, before breaking into laughter again. I kept grinning, waiting. Wanting to throw up. “Do I

love you? Sure, yeah. We’ve been friends for a long time. And I appreciate that,” he grinned again, taking another sip from his glass. “Why’d you word it so dramatically?” he laughed, getting to his knees to stack another log on the fire.

            I felt the vomit rise in my throat. I swallowed it down, focusing on the shattering waves in my chest and the bleary confusion in my head. So this was heartbreak.

            I didn’t know if I could conceal it. I knew I should laugh, continue with the game, make it nonchalant, but I couldn’t speak. Luckily he was focused on his fire, attentively prodding the logs with a poker and sending showers of sparks up the chimney.

            Could I come back from this? Would Joe ever feel the same, with the possibility of the feelings ever being returned dashed into irreparable pieces?             I knew things wouldn’t go back. They couldn’t, not ever. Joe would have to just be Joe, not

my  Joe, the one I created in my head, the one that loved me back but was too shy to say it. I felt shamefully stupid, thinking he would ever like me back. Love me back. I wasn’t good enough for him, or maybe not smart enough, not kind enough, not pretty enough. Something about me wasn’t good enough for him.

            I forced a laugh before the silence became too awkward. “You know me, always gotta be unreasonably dramatic.”             Joe turned from the fire, settling comfortably in his own blanket. “Yeah you are.”             He grinned, like my heart hadn’t just shattered. Like he hadn’t just proven every doubt I’d ever had about myself.

            I tried to return the smile, tried to think of another joke to keep things casual. I couldn’t. I felt tears prick my eyes, and I quickly turned to fiddle with my purse.

            “Your turn again. Truth or Dare,” Joe said. I could hear him swishing the wine around in his cup.

            I turned around, pulling out my phone with me. “Oh shoot. I didn’t realize the time, I have to get to work an hour early to go over something with a client.”             Joe’s expression remained nearly the same. He looked a little sad, but probably equally as happy to have the cabin to himself again. He wouldn’t miss me anymore than any other friend of his.

            “Really? That sucks,” he stood with me, taking the blanket from my shoulder. His hand brushed over my collar bone and I fought back a shiver. I felt the tears threaten again. “Well, thanks for coming. Drive safe.”             Joe handed me my purse and ducked to peer out of his kitchen window. “Looks like more snow.”             I nodded, gathering myself one last time. “Thanks for dinner. Bye, Joe.”             I hurried to his door, a huge part of me still wanting to linger and force time to move slower. The lasagna pan clattered in the sink and Joe started to whistle something off tune.

            “Bye!” he turned as I opened the door, giving me a wave and a smile. I returned it, struggling to make my body comply.

            I started to sob the moment I closed his door. I hurried to my car, sharp flakes of snow whizzing across my face and bare hands. The drive home was a dark, tearful blur, and the ache steadily got worse. I tried to be angry, even offended, but the hurt didn’t want to be replaced. I could only be angry at myself, and that wasn’t enough.             A month went by. Then two, then three. I saw Joe off and on, but it never felt the same. I knew it never could. I think he sensed something was off—there was a new confused look in his eyes that I had to ignore, even when his gaze lingered. I even tried to replace him, but like I’d always known, there was no other Joe. No one could compare to that.

            Surrounded by pain and embarrassment, I got a job in a different city. I left Joe and his cabin and all I ever felt for him back in the woods. With the distance it became easier, and the ache started to dull. I thought about him every night, but not for as long.

            I wondered if he ever thought about me, if he would ever come to realize, regret, or ache for me like I did for him. I doubted it.

            But I like to wonder.


The city of Morwenna sprawled beneath a twilight sky, its buildings huddled together like conspirators beneath a cloak of perpetual dusk. Somewhere amidst the labyrinth of alleyways and towering structures, Marcellus Draegan watched over his domain. His heart pulsed with an energy that few could understand, a relentless drive that had pushed him to where he was now: the most feared and respected man in the underworld. He had been called many things—monster, tyrant, villain—but those words were whispered by the weak, the unworthy. To Marcellus, he was something more—a necessary force, a guardian of order in a world that teetered on the edge of chaos. Marcellus hadn't always been this way. He was once a boy with dreams, a young man with hopes, but life had stripped those away, layer by layer, until only the cold, hard core remained. He could still remember the day he learned the truth of power: it wasn’t given; it was taken. And those who refused to take it were doomed to be crushed by those who did. He had been sixteen when his father died, leaving him and his mother to fend for themselves in a city that preyed on the vulnerable. His father had been a man of integrity, a man who believed in the law and in justice. He was a fool. Marcellus saw how the world had repaid his father’s honesty—with a bullet in his back and his name forgotten. The law had done nothing, and justice had been absent. So Marcellus had sworn that day to never be weak, to never allow the world to dictate his fate. The first time he killed, it was for survival. The second time, it was for revenge. The third time, it was for power. And with each death, he felt himself growing stronger, more in control, more certain of his path. Morwenna was a city of shadows, and he would be its architect. Now, as he stood in his office, high above the streets, Marcellus considered the latest threat to his empire. A rival gang, led by a man named Lorcan, had been encroaching on his territory. Lorcan was ambitious, reckless, and dangerous—a man who fancied himself a king in a city with only one throne. Marcellus turned away from the window, his mind calculating the steps ahead. Lorcan was a problem, yes, but he was also an opportunity. A chance to remind the city who truly ruled its dark heart. He walked to his desk, where a map of the city lay spread out. Red circles marked areas of interest, key locations that would determine the balance of power. Marcellus traced a finger along the map, his thoughts drifting to the people who inhabited the city—those who lived their lives in ignorance of the machinations that controlled their fates. They were sheep, content to graze while wolves prowled the edges of their world. He would not let Morwenna fall into the hands of another wolf. Marcellus picked up a phone and dialed a number. A voice answered on the other end, and he gave his orders in a calm, measured tone. “I want Lorcan’s operations shut down by the end of the week. Leave nothing standing. And when you’re done, bring him to me.” As he hung up, Marcellus felt a familiar sense of satisfaction. Control. That was what mattered. He had built his empire on it, and he would die before he let it slip away. But control came at a price, and Marcellus knew all too well that the cost was often paid in blood. His thoughts turned to his mother, the woman who had raised him after his father’s death. She had been strong in her own way, but she had never understood him, never accepted what he had become. She wanted a son who followed the rules. One who lived a life of quiet dignity. Marcellus had tried, for a time, to be that man, but the world had other plans. He remembered the disappointment in her eyes, the way she had looked at him as if he were a stranger. When she died, it was with that same look in her eyes, and Marcellus had buried her with the knowledge that she would never have accepted his choices. But he did not regret them. Regret was for the weak, and Marcellus had no room for weakness in his life. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. His right-hand man, Viktor, entered, his face a mask of grim professionalism. “Lorcan’s people are pushing back,” Viktor said. “They’ve taken two of our warehouses on the east side.” Marcellus nodded, his mind already processing the information. “And Lorcan himself?” “Still in hiding, but we’re close. He won’t escape.” “Good,” Marcellus replied, his voice as cold as the night outside. “Make sure the warehouses are reclaimed. I want to send a message.” Viktor nodded and left the room, leaving Marcellus alone once more. The game was in motion, and Marcellus knew that there could only be one outcome. Either Lorcan would fall, or he would. But Marcellus had never been one to lose. The night passed in a blur of reports, orders, and strategic decisions. Marcellus was tireless, driven by a force that seemed to burn within him, pushing him to be better, smarter, more ruthless than his enemies. By dawn, the city had shifted under his command, and Lorcan’s empire was crumbling. Marcellus stood in the ruins of one of the warehouses that had been retaken. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and blood, and the bodies of Lorcan’s men lay scattered around him. It was a scene of victory, but Marcellus felt no joy, only a deep, abiding sense of purpose. This was the cost of power, and he was willing to pay it. Viktor approached, dragging a battered and bloodied Lorcan behind him. The man’s once-proud face was a mask of pain and fear, and Marcellus felt a flicker of satisfaction. This was the moment he had been waiting for. “Marcellus,” Lorcan croaked, his voice barely a whisper. “You don’t have to do this. We can work together, split the city between us.” Marcellus looked down at him, his expression unreadable. “There is no ‘we,’ Lorcan. There’s only one king in Morwenna, and it’s not you.” Lorcan’s eyes filled with desperation as he realized there would be no mercy. “You’re a monster,” he spat, his voice shaking. Marcellus knelt down, his gaze piercing into Lorcan’s. “I’m what this city needs. I’m the one who keeps it from falling into chaos. You were too weak to understand that.” Without another word, Marcellus drew his knife and ended Lorcan’s life with a swift, practiced motion. He stood up, wiping the blade clean, and handed it to Viktor. “Dispose of him,” he said, his voice cold and detached. “And make sure everyone knows what happens when they challenge me.” Viktor nodded and set to work, while Marcellus walked out of the warehouse and into the dawn. The city was waking up, its people oblivious to the battles fought in the shadows. They would go about their lives, unaware of the blood spilled to keep their world intact. As Marcellus returned to his headquarters, he felt a sense of calm settle over him. Lorcan was gone, and his power was secure—for now. But Marcellus knew that there would always be another challenge, another threat to his control. And he would face them all, with the same ruthless determination that had brought him this far. He looked out over the city, his city, and allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. He was the architect of Morwenna’s shadows, the one who kept the darkness in check. They could call him a villain if they wished, but Marcellus knew the truth. He was the necessary evil, the one who ensured that order prevailed in a world that would otherwise descend into chaos. And for that, he had no regrets. Cheryl Martin