Chapter 2

Sleeping in a twenty-dollar bed reminded me of what Sebastien always said: that without him, I was nothing more than a speck of dust in the wind. He was right. I felt small, grimy, and utterly insignificant. But as I stared at the water stain on the ceiling that looked vaguely like a weeping eye, I realized one thing: at least dust is free to blow wherever it wants.

The sheets smelled of industrial-grade bleach and a lingering dampness that made my skin crawl. The pillow was as thin as a ransom note, and the cover had a jagged tear where the yellowed foam peeked out like a rotted tooth.

“This isn’t silk, Grace,” I whispered. My voice sounded too brittle for these peeling walls.

I sat up, and the world tilted. The nausea didn't just rise; it slammed into me. This wasn't the motel's fault. It was the secret life inside me, demanding to be acknowledged. I clamped a hand over my mouth, fighting the urge to retch with every ounce of willpower I had left.

“Not now,” I hissed at my own stomach. “Give me five minutes to find my feet.”

I caught a glimpse of myself in the smudged mirror by the door. I looked like a disaster—greasy hair, grape-colored shadows under my eyes, and a wrinkled T-shirt I’d bought at a gas station for five dollars. It was a far cry from the hand-tailored blouses Sebastien used to buy me—the ones that cost more than a month in this dump.

“But at least this one doesn't feel like a noose,” I muttered, pulling the cheap cotton away from my skin.

I stepped out onto the street because the air in the motel felt like breathing through dirty cotton. The sidewalk was slick from last night’s rain, and my ruined suede shoes—the last remnants of my 'trophy wife' wardrobe—were losing their grip.

“Watch your step, honey,” a man walking a scruffy dog called out.

“Thanks,” I replied, keeping my head down. People don’t look at you when you’re out at nine in the morning looking like a fugitive from your own life.

I found a diner on the corner, a place that smelled of stale bacon and desperation. I ordered tea, the cheapest thing on the menu. The waitress, a woman with hair dyed a shade of crimson that didn't exist in nature, took one look at my face and set the notepad down.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” she asked, her voice surprisingly soft.

“Just tired.”

“Pregnant?”

I froze. She smiled, a sad, knowing tilt of the lips. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen that look a thousand times. You want some toast? It’s on the house.”

“I’m not hungry,” I lied, my stomach twisting.

“That’s exactly why you need to eat. Sit.”

She brought the toast anyway. It was dry, but it smelled like home. I took a bite, and the nausea subsided just a fraction. A small victory, but in this new world, I’d take whatever I could get.

The sun was stinging the back of my neck by the time I started walking again. This town was the opposite of the tree-lined avenues of the Montgomery estate. Here, the metal shutters were scarred with graffiti and the scent of the sewers rose up to meet the humidity. Yet, there were children laughing as they chased a deflated ball, and women hanging laundry on balconies no bigger than a shoebox.

“I’m a stranger here,” I said to a fat cat perched on a windowsill. The cat just yawned, unimpressed by my existential crisis.

That’s when the world stopped.

An old man was standing in the middle of the crosswalk, leaning heavily on a dark wooden cane. He wore a coat far too heavy for the morning sun and a hat that shadowed his face. He swayed once. Twice.

“Sir?” I called out, my heart hammering against my ribs.

He barely turned. His skin was the color of baking paper. Then, his knees gave way. The cane clattered against the asphalt, and his hat rolled toward the gutter like a dead leaf.

I ran. It wasn't a graceful sprint. It was a clumsy, desperate dash, my suede shoes splashing through puddles while the nausea burned in my throat. I reached him just before his head hit the pavement, sliding my arms underneath him to break the fall.

“Help!” I screamed, my voice raw. “Someone call an ambulance!”

People watched. They always do. A teenager with headphones didn't even break his stride. A woman with a stroller hesitated, then hurried away when her baby started to cry. It was the red-haired waitress who finally burst out of the diner, phone already pressed to her ear.

“They’re five minutes out,” she yelled. “Is he breathing?”

“Yes,” I gasped, cradling the man's head. His eyes fluttered open—piercingly light blue. His hand shot out, gripping mine with a terrifying, iron-like strength.

“Thank you,” he rasped. “What’s your name?”

“Grace.”

“Grace,” he repeated, a ghostly smile touching his lips. “You’re too young to be alone in a place like this.”

“I’m not alone,” I lied, looking him in the eye. “I’m with you.”

He let out a wheezing laugh that turned into a cough. “I like that. I’m Harold Steel. Can you... can you stay?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Harold.”

I sat there on the damp pavement, ignoring the filth staining my clothes. He smelled of pipe tobacco and an expensive, old-fashioned cologne that didn't belong in this neighborhood.

“Do you have family, Mr. Steel?”

“A son. Haven't seen him in years. Business... it's a poison, Grace.”

“I know,” I whispered.

“And you? Who’s waiting for you?”

I looked at the ambulance sirens screaming in the distance. “A baby,” I finally admitted. “Still on the way.”

“Then you’re never alone,” he said, his grip tightening. “You’re carrying a whole world inside you.”

The paramedics arrived, a whirlwind of blue uniforms and barking orders. They tried to move me aside, but Harold wouldn't let go. His knuckles were white; I was his only anchor to the world.

“Are you family?” a paramedic asked, prepping the gurney.

“No, I was just passing by.”

“Well, he won't let go. You’d better hop in.”

The smell of disinfectant inside the ambulance made my head spin. I clenched my teeth, fighting the urge to vanish.

“Are you alright, young lady?” Harold asked, his eyes closed.

“Morning sickness,” I managed.

“My wife... she used to throw up until lunch. I’d make her ginger tea. It never worked, but she loved the gesture.” He smiled faintly. “Don't let them call you ‘ma’am,’ Grace. You’re a ‘young lady.’ Ladies don’t like being reminded of the weight of the world.”

The ambulance screeched to a halt at the hospital doors. As they prepared to wheel him into the chaos of the ER, Harold pulled me close one last time.

“Don’t worry, young lady,” he whispered, his voice suddenly clear and steady. “Fate doesn’t forget those who help in the dark. Neither will I.”

I watched the double doors swallow him whole. I stood on the sidewalk, my hands shaking in my pockets. I checked my phone. No messages. No missed calls from Sebastien. No one was looking for me.

“This is it,” I whispered to the empty air. “This is being alive.”

I touched my belly, feeling the faint, steady rhythm of my own heart—and the tiny promise of another.

“We’re going to be okay,” I promised. “We’re dust, and we’re free.”