Chapter 6: Talia

Wren's Pov:

I can't fall asleep after reading the note. I remain seated at my kitchen table until the sky outside my window begins to lighten, a flower still in a glass of water beside me. I kept it unsure of why, perhaps because throwing it away felt like an admission of fear. I pick up the note once more.

"I am aware of what they stole from you."

Only six words.

I've read them so frequently that they no longer resemble words. Just six small marks on a sheet of paper, appearing like a closed door I am hesitant to open.

I have decided to burn it on three occasions.

Three times I have reached for a lighter.

Three times I have hesitated.

When the sun finally rises, I am drained. It is not the type of weariness that can be remedied by sleep. It is the kind that settles deep in your bones after spending the whole night anticipating something dreadful.

At nine, Talia enters my apartment without knocking. She has been doing so for two years.

Ever since she discovered me crying behind The Blue Note owner, Talia, took notice of the note and me, accepting me as her responsibility. Without hesitation, she glanced at me and then at the message on the table.

"Understood," she responded slowly, picking up the note.

"Who left this?" she inquired.

"I'm not sure," I replied.

Our eyes met.

"Wren."

"I truly have no idea, Talia."

I sensed an edge in my tone and regretted it instantly. But Talia remained unfazed as always. Having known each other for two years, she recognized that my anger sometimes stemmed from fear without an outlet.

Pulling out a chair, Talia settled in opposite me and just sat there. She did not prod for answers.

That is one of the reasons why I appreciate her.

Instead of pushing, Talia offered her presence. She stayed with me until the words found their way out.

In this bustling city, Talia was the only one who addressed me by my birth name.

Others identified me as the vocalist at The Blue Note, a persona I adopted six years ago. But Talia understood the person behind the stage name.

She had seen the physical scar marking my skin and witnessed me on my most vulnerable days. She had observed me when it felt too overwhelming to let emotions out.

She’s seen me on days when getting out of bed felt like climbing a mountain. She saw me before I learned how to smile as nothing had happened.

We met at a physical therapy clinic I could barely afford.

Two broken women sitting in the same waiting room.

Somewhere between the awkward silences and the terrible coffee, she became family.

“Talk to me,” she says.

So I do.

I tell her about the man at The Blue Note.

The way the room seemed to change when he walked in.

The way he watched me.

Not like someone listening to a singer.

Like someone who already knew me.

Then I tell her about the note.

When I say the six words out loud, my voice cracks.

“I think somebody’s been watching me.”

Talia’s expression tightens.

“How long?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do they want?”

“I don’t know that either.”

She looks at the note again.

“Then what do you know?”

I stare at my hands.

“That whoever this is knows things they shouldn’t.”

Her eyes come back to mine.

“What things?”

I hesitate.

There are things about the accident I’ve never told anyone.

Not the things everyone already knows.

The limp.

The scar.

The months of physical therapy.

The doctor’s voice when he told me some things might never go back to normal.

There’s one part I have never said out loud.

Not even to Talia.

Right before the car hit us, something inside me knew.

It was only for a second.

A strange instinct.

A warning.

I should have moved.

I didn’t.

I just stood there and stared at the headlights.

Sometimes, when I think about it too long, I wonder if some part of me had already decided I deserved what was coming.

I can’t tell Talia that.

Not today.

“I don’t know,” I say.

It’s not exactly a lie.

“But it doesn’t feel like a threat.”

She frowns.

“Then what does it feel like?”

I swallow.

“Like someone knows me.”

She says nothing.

“Really knows me,” I add quietly. “Like they saw everything that happened and didn’t look away.”

Talia reaches across the table and takes my hand.

Her fingers are warm.

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

And I let myself breathe.

That’s what Talia has always been good at.

She doesn’t try to fix me.

She doesn’t tell me everything will be okay.

She just stays.

“You know I’d tell you if something felt wrong,” she says.

I look at her.

There’s something strange in her expression.

Something I can’t quite place.

It disappears almost immediately.

“You’d tell me?”

“Of course.”

I give her a small smile.

“I know.”

And I do.

The idea of Talia keeping something from me feels ridiculous.

Impossible.

So I let it go.

We spend the next hour talking about everything except the note.

Her shift at the diner.

A customer who tried to pay with expired coupons.

The new bartender at The Blue Note, who apparently thinks an Old Fashioned is supposed to taste like sugar syrup.

That one gets me.

I laugh.

A real laugh.

Not the kind I give people when I’m onstage.

The kind that starts somewhere in my chest and escapes before I can stop it.

For a few minutes, I forget about the note.

I forget about the man.

I forget about the accident.

I look at Talia and realise, not for the first time, that she is probably the reason there’s still a soft part of me left.

The accident took a lot from me.

Maybe too much.

But somehow, Talia stayed.

And because she stayed, not everything was lost.

We’re still laughing when someone knocks.

Three times.

Sharp.

Deliberate.

My laughter dies.

Talia’s does too.

We look at each other.

“Are you expecting anyone?” she whispers.

I shake my head.

My pulse starts climbing.

The knock comes again.

Three times.

The same.

Not rushed.

Not impatient.

Almost polite.

And somehow, that’s worse.

I slowly turn toward the door.

Through the thin gap underneath it, I see shadows.

Two pairs of boots.

They’re standing perfectly still.

Waiting.

My fingers tighten around the edge of the table.

Whoever is outside isn’t leaving.

And somehow, the worst part isn’t that they’re here.

It’s the feeling that they already know I’ll open the door.