One: The Weight of Morning

Lillium Roosevelt

It had been a week since my mother passed, and the weight of her absence clung to my heart like a heavy shroud. I lay in the same worn-out bed in our small apartment, the familiar space echoing every memory of her. Sunlight streamed through the frayed curtains, casting a warm glow against the peeling walls that witnessed our joys and sorrows. My mother was my confidant, my sunshine, and my life. Without her, I felt adrift, grappling with grief while buried under piles of bills and debts that seemed insurmountable. The moment I lost her, I lost everything.

I glanced around the room, cluttered with remnants of our life together. A dust-covered guitar that she used to strum softly in the evenings; photographs of birthdays and holidays that hung askew on the wall. Each memento tugged at my heart, a reminder of the love and laughter that had once filled the space. I had dropped out of college, feeling the crushing weight of responsibility as I took a job at this diner. My days bled together in a haze of fluorescent lights and monotonous tasks, my nights haunted by sleeplessness and worry. I was drowning, and all I could do was paddle.

As I sat up, I sighed deeply and stretched, feeling the morning sunlight begin to warm my skin. It was a fleeting reminder that life continued outside the walls of my grief. "I can do this," I whispered to myself, a fragile affirmation that felt both empowering and hollow. Gathering my thoughts, I rose from the bed and trudged to the bathroom, steeling myself for another day.

The shower brought a momentary escape, the water washing away the remnants of sorrow, if only for a brief while. I brushed my teeth, looking into the mirror at the reflection of a young man who looks pale and unhealthy, his eyes heavy with fatigue. After slipping into my casual attire—a jacket, a faded t-shirt and worn jeans—I took a deep breath and steeled myself for the day ahead.

Stepping outside, the bustling streets of New York enveloped me. I picked up my pace, my mind racing as I caught snippets of conversations and the distant honks of taxis. Each passerby was a reminder of a world moving forward, while I felt stuck in a moment suspended by loss.

As I rushed down the crowded sidewalk, I weaved through the throng of various personalities: tourists snapping photos, hurried professionals engrossed in their phones, and street performers vying for attention. In my haste, I bumped into a young woman clutching her coffee, eliciting an apology that barely registered in my mind. My purpose was singular: catch the bus.

A few blocks in, I directed my steps towards a well-known food truck, the wafting scent of bacon and sizzling eggs drawing me in. The line was short, but each passing second felt like an eternity as I fumbled for the last of my cash. I ordered the cheapest breakfast—a breakfast burrito—and waited impatiently as the vendor wrapped it in a paper towel, handing it to me with a cheerful smile.

“Have a good day!” the vendor called out. I forced a smile in return before continuing towards the bus stop. As I ate the burrito on the way, the flavors reminded me of mornings spent with my mother, eating breakfast together as she shared stories of her youth. I shook off the bittersweet memories, focusing on the task at hand—get to work, survive another day.

With each bite, I wrestled my thoughts into submission, reminding myself that life must go on, even when it felt unbearably heavy. As I glanced at the horizon, the sunshine broke through the clouds. In that moment, I found a flicker of hope—a silent promise to persevere, to keep moving forward, no matter how daunting the path may seem.

I reached the stop just in time, panting slightly as I caught sight of the bus’s doors beginning to close. With a burst of adrenaline, I sprinted forward, my bag bouncing against my side as I called out, “Wait!”

The doors retracted with a hiss, and the bus driver, Viktor, was grinning as he held the door open for me. His warm, inviting smile was accentuated by his thick mustache and vibrant Mexican accent. “Good morning, Lu!” he greeted with an enthusiasm that always lifted my spirits.

“Good morning, Viktor and thank you!” I replied, beaming back at him as I stepped inside. He gave a nod of acknowledgement and quickly shut the door behind me, the familiar sound of the bus engine rumbling to life surrounding us.

I made my way down the narrow aisle, scanning for an empty seat while the bus jerked slightly as it began to pull away from the curb. The sound of chatter and laughter filled the air, creating a lively atmosphere punctuated by the occasional rustle of backpacks. After a brief search, I spotted a vacant seat at the back; it was my favorite spot, nestled against the window where I could observe the world passing by.

Settling into my seat, I took a moment to catch my breath. The remnants of my quick breakfast—a burrito—were still in my hand, so I finished the last bites and tossed the empty wrappers into my bag. With that chore done, I turned my attention to the scenery unfolding outside the window.

The bus trundled along the familiar route, and I settled in to watch the town wake up around me. Golden sunlight flooded the streets, illuminating the vibrant trees that lined the sidewalks. I could see children bundled in colorful jackets, giggling as they raced toward the school just a few blocks away. An elderly couple strolled hand-in-hand, their laughter echoing in the cool morning air, a timeless scene of companionship.

As we moved deeper into the heart of the city, the buildings rose higher, casting long shadows on the pavement. I watched as the vibrant graffiti murals that adorned the walls came into view, each one telling a story of creativity and resilience. I often wondered about the souls behind those artworks—what dreams, hopes, and struggles they represented.

Lost in my thoughts, I could barely hear Viktor calling out the bus stops, his voice blending into the symphony of the morning bustle. The rhythmic stop-and-go of the journey soothed me, and for the briefest of moments, I felt at peace, connected to the vibrant tapestry of life unfolding around me.

...

The bus hissed softly as it came to a stop. I stood, slung my worn-out bag over my shoulder, and stepped off. The morning air was crisp, biting at my cheeks as I turned back and gave Viktor a small wave. He smiled from the driver’s seat, a kind smile that rarely changed no matter the weather or hour, and raised his hand in return. With a soft pneumatic sigh, the bus doors closed, and the vehicle rumbled away, its red tail lights vanishing into the early city haze.

I pulled my jacket tighter around me and began the walk toward the family diner. It wasn’t far, but today every step felt like a lead weight. My shoes scuffed quietly against the pavement, and the chill in the wind wasn’t the only thing that made my skin crawl. Someone was watching me. I couldn’t see them, but I could feel it—that heavy gaze that makes the hairs on your arms stand up and your breath catch in my throat.

I paused, mid-step, and looked around. Pedestrians bustled past me, lost in their own morning routines—coffee in hand, phones glued to their ears. I scanned the alleyways, the shop windows, the street corners. Nothing.

Maybe I'm just imagining it again.

I exhaled slowly, trying to push the paranoia aside. It was too early to let fear take the reins. Shaking my head, I forced my legs to keep moving. The feeling persisted, though, a prickling unease that settled low in my gut. The familiar comfort of the diner, usually a beacon of warmth and bacon, felt distant and precarious.

Soon, I was standing in front of the small, two-story brick building that had become a haven to me—the diner. The faded sign above the door, proclaiming "Rosie's," still held a peculiar charm, and the glass reflected the soft gold of the rising sun, painting the chipped paint in gentle hues. I pushed the door open. The bell above chimed its familiar, slightly off-key tune, and a wave of warmth, both physical and emotional, rushed to greet me.

Inside, Rosetta was already at work, gracefully wiping down tables with rhythmic precision. Her long, voluminous curls, the color of burnished bronze, shimmered under the soft light. She looked up and met my eyes with a smile that was both gentle and knowing, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken anxieties that often clung to me like a second skin.

“Good morning, Lu,” she said, her voice light with affection, a familiar balm to my frayed nerves.

“Good morning, Rosetta,” I replied, managing a soft smile as I walked past her, the familiar scent of coffee and sizzling bacon already wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. For a brief moment, the diner felt as safe and predictable as it always had.

“Good morning, everyone,” I called as I stepped into the kitchen, trying to summon my usual, bright, if slightly forced, cheer. But the room responded with an unnerving silence. The usual clatter and cheerful banter were absent. A heavy stillness hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

Tom, the head cook, a middle-aged man with short, graying black hair and a matching beard, stood rigidly by the stove. His strong features, usually etched with a gruff kindness, were now set in a mask of grim concern. He was pulling on his apron, his strong hands moving automatically, but his eyes, deep blue and usually twinkling with mischief, locked onto mine. There was a shadow in them, a silent warning that chilled me to the bone. It wasn't anger I saw, but something far more unsettling – pity, mixed with a profound, almost unbearable worry. He shook his head slowly, the movement weighted with unspoken grief, not in anger, but in a silent, agonizing plea.

My forced cheer dissolved. A cold dread, sharper than any physical pain, pierced the comforting aroma of bacon. The warmth of the diner suddenly felt like a cage, trapping me in a silent, impending storm. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. And Tom’s worried gaze told me, without a single word, that I was about to find out just how wrong it was.

Before I could ask, I felt the familiar presence of Donny beside me. His lean, muscular body brushed against my arms as he leaned in close, lowering his voice. “Those people…”

I turned to him quickly. My heart had already begun racing, the anxiety pressing in like a vice around my ribs.

“They were here again,” he finished.

I looked into his eyes—those deep, stormy blue eyes—and I felt my stomach turn. They had found me. Again.

The memories hit like waves, crashing over me, pulling me under. Before my mother died, I was desperate. Desperation, a suffocating blanket, had wrapped itself around me, squeezing the air from my lungs. I would have done anything to keep her alive—to ease her pain, to buy her more time. I borrowed money, begged for it, pawned everything of value, until I was left with nothing but the gnawing emptiness of failure. When all the doors slammed shut, I turned to the only one that opened: His.

Dominus Vane, A man whose influence spread like a malignant shadow, his connections a labyrinthine web of power, and his reputation built on violence and ruthlessness. His money was dirty, stained with the suffering of others, a price paid in broken lives and shattered dreams. And when I couldn’t repay him, he didn’t ask for interest. He took what he wanted.

He took me.

He’d offered a lifeline, a fleeting promise of hope amidst the despair. But the lifeline had become a chain, binding me to him with an invisible but unshakeable force. I’d tried running, disappearing into the anonymity of crowded cities, changing my name, my appearance. I’d tried hiding, burrowing myself into the shadows, hoping to become invisible. But he always found me. His reach was impossibly long, his grasp inescapable.

Some nights, I came home trembling, the bruises hidden beneath long sleeves, carefully concealed beneath layers of clothing. Other nights, the pain was deeper—etched into my mind, a landscape of terror and violation, scars that never healed, wounds that festered in the dark corners of my soul. The physical pain was nothing compared to the relentless, gnawing fear that gnawed at my insides. The knowledge that he could appear at any moment, that he was always watching, always waiting, kept my heart trapped in a perpetual state of frantic flight.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. I didn’t even know who I was apologizing to—Donny, Tom, Rosetta… or myself. The weight of unspoken accusations hung heavy in the air.

Donny reached up and gently brushed a thumb over my cheek. His touch was soft, protective, a stark contrast to the raw fear that still clawed at my insides. His thumb, worn smooth from years of working their family diner, felt strangely comforting against my skin. “You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His eyes held something fierce—fury held back by a tenderness that surprised me. “Dad and I took care of it,” he said, his voice low and steady, a counterpoint to the trembling in my own hands. “They won’t bother you today. We made sure of that.” The “they” hung unspoken, a chilling reference to the men who had haunted my nightmares for years.

I felt tears welling, but I blinked them away. I couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now. Not in front of Donny, whose unwavering support had become my only lifeline in this storm-tossed sea of fear. The strength he exuded was infectious, a silent promise of safety he offered without words.

“Thank you,” I said quietly, offering a trembling smile that felt brittle and fragile.

Donny smiled back, a slow, warm curve of his lips that eased the tension knotting my stomach. He was older than me, finally a man, but more than that—he was family. Maybe not by blood, a fact that felt insignificant now, but by every other measure that counted. He and his parents, Tom and Rosetta, had taken me in when I was at my lowest, when the world had narrowed to a suffocating point of despair. They had seen me, truly seen me, not as a broken thing to be discarded, but as someone worthy of love and protection. They had offered me a haven, a place where the shadows couldn't reach.

“You’re safe here,” he said, his voice barely louder than a breath, soft and warm against the heavy sigh of the humid morning. I gave him a faint smile—small, tired, but grateful.

“C’mon,” Donny said gently, tapping my shoulder twice. “We’ve got work to do.”

I nodded and turned away, my footsteps echoing lightly as I headed into the changing room. Inside, the silence was thick, a stark contrast to the usual pre-service chaos of the kitchen. I peeled off my jacket slowly, slipped my bag from my shoulder, and placed it in the locker. My fingers paused for a moment before reaching for the familiar folds of my chef’s uniform, the crisp white cotton a comforting ritual.

As I slipped into it, something tugged at me—a presence, a memory, as elusive and familiar as the scent of rosemary and garlic that always clung to my clothes. The feeling wasn't unpleasant, more like a gentle hand on my back, a silent reassurance in the face of the storm that had ravaged my life.

Just as I was about to shut the locker door, I stopped. My eyes landed on a worn photo taped to the inside. It was her—my mother—and me. We were younger, carefree, bathed in the golden light of a summer afternoon. I was maybe ten, perched on her lap, my head resting against her shoulder. She was smiling, that radiant smile that could chase away any shadow. And in her eyes, that familiar look, a quiet confidence that seemed to say, You’ll be alright, my love. You always will be.

For a moment, everything else faded. The kitchen, the clatter of pans, the demanding rhythm of the day ahead, the gnawing anxiety that had been my constant companion since…since it happened. The exhaustion, the grief, the sheer, bone-deep weariness – it all receded, leaving only the warmth of that memory, the unwavering love in my mother's gaze.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, a shaky exhalation that whispered into the stillness of the changing room. A single tear traced a path down my cheek, unnoticed, unashamed.

“Still here, huh?” I whispered, my voice catching, a mixture of sorrow and a fragile hope. The words hung in the air, unanswered, yet somehow, profoundly answered. In the stillness of that moment, surrounded by the silent lockers and the ghosts of a thousand service nights, it felt as though she truly was. Her love, her strength, her unwavering belief in me – it was still here, woven into the fabric of who I was, a silent guardian angel in the heart of the bustling kitchen. And that, I realized, was enough. For now, at least, it was enough.