14. Community ties

Lena’s POV

I pushed open the café door and the bell tinkled but it sounded too loud, like it was mocking me. I wanted to hide, curl up in a corner and pretend Los Angeles, Ethan, all of it never happened. But then I heard it. Sniffle. Small but sharp. Like someone was breaking inside.

I froze. My heart did that stupid, uneven flip it sometimes did when I was about to run. And then I heard it again. Louder this time, and my chest tightened.

Outside, a kid. Little, maybe six or seven. Sitting on the curb, knees pulled to his chest, face buried in his hands. And he was crying. Real crying. Not the fake kind kids sometimes do. This was the gut-wrenching sort.

I swallowed, then stepped outside. “Hey,” I said, softer than I meant to, crouching down. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

He didn’t look up. His hands muffled his sobs. My chest sank a little. I wanted to scoop him up, hold him and make the world stop hurting for him, but I stayed still. “I’ll help you,” I said. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“Mommy… I can’t… I can’t find my mommy.” His voice cracked. My throat tightened.

I tried not to panic. Tried to keep my voice calm.

“Okay, okay. That’s fine. We’re gonna find her. I promise, okay? You’re safe with me for now.”

He peeked at me through his fingers. Red, puffy eyes. Sniffles rattling through his chest. “Really?”

“Really,” I said, forcing a smile. “I won’t let anything happen to you. We’ll figure this out together.”

He reached for my hand. Tiny, shaking, but he trusted me. That made my chest ache in a way I hadn’t felt since I left Ethan. A little spark, small but there.

We walked slowly, the way you walk when the world feels too big and too cruel and too bright all at once. I asked him questions, but mostly I listened. Every answer made me hold my breath.

“I—I think she went to the park,” he whispered, pointing down the street. “She said she’d meet me here. But she’s not here…” His voice trailed off and he hiccuped.

My stomach twisted. “We’ll find her,” I said again. “I promise. You just gotta keep walking with me, okay?”

He nodded, little wet nod, and we went. The air was cool, salty from the nearby docks, tang of fish and seaweed. I tried not to think about my own losses. Tried not to think about Ethan, about Los Angeles. Just focus on this small life in front of me.

We rounded the corner and I spotted her. Mom, frantic, bags thrown down, hair messy, running toward us like she’d been ripped apart herself. The kid yelled, ran into her arms. She clutched him like she couldn’t ever let go. I wanted to step back, disappear. It was their moment.

“You found him,” I said quietly to the woman. She looked at me, relief like a tidal wave hitting her face.

“Oh thank you thank you. I didn’t know what I’d do if…”

She paused, voice breaking.

“You’re welcome,” I said softly. “He’s okay. That’s what matters.”

She pressed a cookie bag into my hand. “Please, for him,” she said. I nodded, mumbling a thanks, not really caring about the cookies. My chest still ached, warm and tight, like someone had hit me just enough to remind me I was alive.

Back inside the café, Mrs Whitaker peeked at me. “Good job,” she said simple, low. I nodded. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. I could feel it in my chest.

The small heartbeat of satisfaction.

I sat for a moment after my shift. Looked out the window. Kids playing on the pier. Old couples walking, hands intertwined. And I felt… something. Something like maybe, just maybe, I could belong here.

Ethan’s face popped in my mind. I shook it off. Not yet. Not while I was helping someone else, while I could feel the small rush of doing the right thing without anyone watching. Without anyone controlling me.

I thought about the kid again. About how scared he was. About how small he felt. And I thought about me, six months ago, crying into my hands in the mansion, feeling like the world had ended. I had been that lost. But today I hadn’t run. I had acted. I had made a difference.

I smiled faintly, unevenly, messy like a real smile. Not polished, not perfect. Just mine.

The day went on. Orders shouted. Coffee poured. Plates clattered. And I kept moving, kept talking, kept smiling at people who barely noticed. And that was okay. That was enough.

Walking home, the sky orange and pink, I took a deep breath. Salt in the air, breeze in my hair. I thought, maybe life could still hold these little moments, quiet victories, small joys. Maybe I didn’t need to run from everything all the time.

Tonight, I would sleep knowing I mattered today. Really mattered. Not because of anyone’s eyes, not because I was Mrs. Ethan Blackwood, not because I was famous or perfect. Just because I had done something good, and I had felt it.

I held the cookie bag in my lap as I walked through the door of my little rental. Small victories. Real ones.

That’s what kept people like me going.

I had been broken. Maybe still was, in places. But today I was alive. And maybe tomorrow I could be alive again, even more.