Kendrick

"Something is missing."

Then it clicks. I wheel myself to the dresser, reaching for a bottle of cologne—the best one I have. A soft yet masculine blend of Sicilian bergamot and sandalwood. I don't remember when I started using it, but something about the scent feels familiar, like muscle memory.

"Ken, any special occasion?"

"Is there a charity award for me to look like my problems?"

Jeffery crosses his arms. "It's just unusual. The second shave in two days. A bath ahead of schedule. And that cologne? Before the accident, you only used it on special occasions. Not to mention..." His eyes trail down to my outfit.

"Am I overdoing it?"

"For someone whose only outings are to the foyer, gym, game room, or cinema? Yes. I haven't seen you in anything but T-shirts and sweatpants for two years."

"And?"

"If you were leaving the house, which would be odd considering I've received no such orders, it's a decent fit."

"I'm not leaving."

"Hmm."

"Jeffery, it's just a silk-blend polo and wool trousers."

"Right. And it just so happens to be four fifteen."

I glance at my watch. "I can tell time."

"How convenient that Keisha," he pauses. I choke on my own spit. Come on, "is scheduled to clean at four thirty," he finishes, eyes narrowing.

"Kendrick, I know it's not my place, but you know you can't be seen. Not yet. Not until you're..." He stops, studying me.

"Better," I finish for him.

"I know how my parents are. I know what they expect. But today, I just want to feel like something more than a shadow of myself."

He shakes his head, feeling remorseful.

"Keisha? The one you said cooks, right? If I remember correctly... Don't worry about her," I mutter. "I hadn't even seen her long before the accident."

"Alright." His phone rings. Liam, right on schedule. Time for Jeffery to leave.

He checks the alarm on my chair, his usual ritual. "Keep your phone close."

"I will."

The door clicks shut behind him. I wait, twenty minutes, maybe more. Jeffery is sharp. If he has the slightest suspicion, he'll double back just to catch me in the act.

To pass the time, I scroll through book titles, searching for something worth discussing. But then I glance up.

The mirror catches me off guard.

My legs, slumped awkwardly to the side. A reminder. A reality I can't escape.

Then her face flashes in my mind, and my confidence shatters.

What is this sudden excitement about, the sight of a new face, a potential friend or was it more? I wonder, regretting why I asked her to show up today. I've never seen a woman so beautiful in the last two years. I may not have stepped outside, but I've watched enough films to know beauty when I see it. Yet, none of them compare to her.

Her strawberry-blonde hair slipped free as the veil fell from her head, and her eyes, a haunting blend of grey and blue, held me captive. Bewitching. Arresting. They stilled me, silenced me, made me pretend I hadn't just let an intruder slip past unnoticed.

I haven't slept well in a long time, but last night was different.

It was not because of the voices. Not the echoes of the crash or the flashes before everything went dark.

Last night, it was her.

Her eyes. Her voice. Her radiance.

You must be a fool to think someone like that would want anything to do with you. The thought creeps in, unwelcome but familiar.

"I haven't even deciphered whatever this is," I mutter, as if saying it aloud will make it true.

But the doubt lingers. I may not remember much from before the accident. I've seen the pictures. The videos. The headlines. Evidence of the man I used to be. The way I treated women. The recklessness. Sometimes, I wonder if this is karma having its way with me.

Frustration tightens in my chest, my grip firm around the vase in front of me. The urge to throw it, to hear it shatter against the wall, is almost unbearable. But I'm tired. Tired of breaking things. Tired of this cycle.

Sometimes I wonder why they didn't give this heart to someone else. Someone who actually deserved to make the best of life. But then again, whoever they were, they would have wanted me to live better.

Mother calls it a miracle that I survived the heart transplant and brain surgery despite everything.

I exhale sharply and press the hidden switch. A soft click follows, and the disguised shelf slides open, revealing the secret passage to the library.

Yesterday, I made one of the best decisions of my life. I ignored that voice in my head, the one that's always waiting to pull me under. I needed to do something different. See somewhere different. And it led me to a sight I won't forget for decades.

Part of me wants to know everything about her. The other part warns me to forget, to act like she never existed. Because the truth is, the cons outweigh the pros.

I move out, keeping to the shadows. The sight of someone dusting the shelves sends a jolt through me. She came.

I part my lips, ready to call her name, until the figure straightens.

Blonde hair. Paler skin. A soft cough.

Definitely not Rose.

Keisha, most likely. Though they look almost alike, I know this isn't the woman who's been haunting my thoughts.

What was I expecting? That Rose would be here, dressed in her finest, waiting patiently for me? She would have grown grey hairs before I even rolled in.

At least her sister doesn't seem to know I'm here. Or about yesterday's incident.

She coughs again, then lowers herself onto a chair at the library table. Her shoulders tremble, and a quiet sob escapes as she presses her apron to her face.

Something is wrong.

Does Rose know her sister isn't okay?

My hands tighten on the wheels. I should turn back, leave before I do something reckless. If I speak, I won't stop at asking what's wrong.

I'll ask about Rose too.

And that would be like cracking open a volcanic mountain ready to spill its venom.

Without another thought, I wheel myself back the way I came. Down the hall, past the lined portraits and bookcases. I do not look back.

Maybe tomorrow I will be braver.

But today, I return to my room, roll past the mirror without looking, and head for the corner where the carving tools wait.

It started as a way to pass time, something my mother thought might help with my motor skills. Now, it's the only place I let myself fall apart without completely losing control.

I pull out a block of softwood, still rough at the edges. The half-formed figure stares back at me, faceless. Maybe that's why I keep carving it—I haven't decided who it's supposed to be.

Each stroke of the knife is steady, but the weight behind it is anything but calm. I chip away the wood, not thinking, not planning. Just moving. Just releasing.

I tell myself I'm shaping something, but really, I'm just trying not to break.