Chapter 4: The Morning After

Amara's POV

The sky was still dark when I opened my eyes, the early light not yet peeking past the horizon. Everything was silent, save for the occasional hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the soft ticking of the wall clock. I sat up quietly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. My body moved on instinct, going through the routine I've followed for the last four years.

Wash face.

Brush teeth.

Drink hot water.

Simple, quiet rituals that grounded me in a world I kept at arm's length.

I glanced toward Mr. Walton's room. The door was still closed, maybe he was still asleep. In the living room, I could see Brooks lying on the floor with nothing but a blanket I'd thrown over him last night. Jerald was stretched out on the long sofa, breathing steadily. His injured side was bandaged, though a faint patch of blood had seeped through the fabric of his shirt. I paused for a moment, just watching them, feeling the strange reality of strangers occupying my small, quiet world.

I needed air.

Pulling on my hoodie, I stepped outside for a jog. Just fifteen minutes, I told myself. Enough to clear my head. The early breeze was cool against my cheeks as I ran along the quiet streets, letting the rhythmic sound of my steps echo against the stillness of dawn.

Afterward, I made my way to my favorite bakery. It was a little hole-in-the-wall place tucked between two buildings, always opening before sunrise. The smell of fresh pastry wrapped around me like a warm blanket. Since I had unexpected guests at home, I bought more than usual four portions of their raspberry lemon bread and two boxes of my favorite lemon tart, still warm in the takeout container.

It felt weird to buy this much. But somehow... it didn't feel wrong either.

When I got back to the house and opened the front door, I was hit by the smell of something cooking. Butter, eggs... coffee?

I blinked.

There, sitting at my old dining table that didn't match anything about his polished appearance, was Mr. Walton. He looked like someone pulled out of a fashion magazine wearing my clothes, ruggedly disheveled, but still somehow model-level sharp. His presence felt surreal, like he didn't belong in my worn-down kitchen with its mismatched tiles and squeaky cupboard doors.

Jerald and Brooks were in the kitchen, cooking. The sight of those two men one with a bandaged torso and the other with his sleeves rolled up like an awkward dad clashing with the worn-out kitchen appliances was enough to make me pause.

I set the pastries on the table.

"Good morning, Miss Musk," Jerald greeted me politely.

Brooks gave me a half-salute, grinning. "Morning."

I froze for a second at the name.... Miss Musk. It clicked. Mr. Walton must've mentioned it last night. So... they'd already investigated me. I wasn't surprised, but it still made my stomach twist slightly.

I nodded silently in response and sat down, unboxing the pastries without saying a word. The kitchen smelled like coffee and slightly overcooked eggs. I noticed their attempt at breakfast .... ham, waffles, and eggs...all the things I happened to have in the fridge. Which, admittedly, wasn't much. I hadn't gone grocery shopping in days.

"Miss Musk, do you drink coffee?" Brooks asked, holding up a steaming mug.

"Nope." I moved toward the cupboard and grabbed my favorite mug, then went to the fridge. I sliced a lemon, added a spoonful of honey, poured hot water, and gave it a gentle stir. The scent filled the room.... Citrusy, fresh, calming.

When I turned around, I caught all three men watching me.

They quickly tried to act casually.

"Ahem... the weather today is nice," Brooks muttered, pretending to look out the window.

Jerald coughed, covering his smile. "Yeah. Real... nice."

Mr. Walton didn't bother pretending. He just stared at me, calm and unreadable.

I sat across from him and opened the lemon tart and raspberry lemon bread boxes. "Let's eat," I said, barely above a whisper.

They didn't need to tell twice.

We ate in silence for a while, only the sound of forks clinking and occasional chewing filling the space. It wasn't uncomfortable, surprisingly. Just... quiet.

"This bread is really good,"

 Brooks mumbled through a mouthful, his eyes wide with appreciation. 

"Where'd you buy it, Miss?"

"There's a pastry shop near here," I answered simply, slicing my tart.

"It's seriously delicious," Jerald added, taking another bite.

 "Crispy outside, soft inside. Sweet but not too sweet."

Brooks leaned forward.

 "Uh... Miss, is lemon your favorite or something? Your drink, this tart, even your house smells like it."

I looked at him for a second.

Even Mr. Walton seemed curious now, his eyes fixed on me like he was waiting for a deeper answer.

"It's not my favorite," I replied honestly. 

"I just like the smell. It feels... fresh."

They didn't push further.

Once breakfast ended, I stood and walked over to Jerald. His wound looked better. A little pale, but the bleeding had stopped. "Your side's healing fast," I said. "You'll be okay even without a hospital."

"Thanks to you," he said, smiling.

A beat of silence passed before Brooks cleared his throat. 

"Mr. Walton, we should go back now."

Mr. Walton looked at me again longer this time, like he was trying to memorize something.

"Thank you, Miss Musk," Jerald said, standing slowly. "For saving me."

I nodded once. "It's fine. I just returned the favor."

Mr. Walton's voice was steady when he spoke next. "How much compensation do we owe you?"

I turned my gaze to him, searching for his face. He was unreadable. Calm. Dangerous. Mysterious.

I couldn't tell what he was thinking.

"It's fine," I said quietly, turning and settling on my worn-out single-seater sofa.

They didn't need to know I'd be leaving this house soon anyway. My flight was this afternoon. I'd already promised Grandfather I'd return. I had to hand over the key to the landlady later. I had no furniture to bring. No clutter. Just a few essentials. I'd always lived light.

"Are you sure?" he asked again.

I looked at him and nodded.

After a moment, he stepped forward and placed a black card on the coffee table. 

"Call me if you need anything."

I hesitated. Then, slowly, I picked it up.

He turned toward the door.

"Thank you again, Miss Musk," Brooks said, bowing slightly. I nodded at him.

Jerald handed me a second card. "I owe you one. Seriously anything you need, just call."

I tucked the cards into my pocket without a word and followed them to the door. They stepped out with brief goodbyes and disappeared down the street.

And then... the silence returned.

I stood alone in the house, the scent of lemon and coffee still lingering in the air.

I'd been alone for so long. But somehow, it didn't feel quite the same now.

After a while I moved around barefoot, the faint creak of the floorboards, the only sound echoing through the walls that had once kept my solitude intact. Dust motes floated lazily in the morning light that streamed through the windows, and with a soft sigh, I tied my hair into a loose bun and rolled up the sleeves of my hoodie.

It was time.

Grabbing a cloth and the last of my cleaning supplies, I began wiping the windowsills, the corners of the shelves, and the parts of the floor I hadn't stepped on in days. The house wasn't messy, not really....it never was but I needed it to look like no one had ever lived here. Like I'd just been passing through.

The tiny bathroom got a final rinse. I refolded the towel I left hanging, even if no one would use it again. I smoothed the blanket on the single-seater couch. Straightened the picture frame near the door, even though it didn't hold any pictures, just a piece of paper with an old quote on it.... "Disappear quietly, leave no trace."

Fitting, really.

I checked the kitchen last. The pan I used to make scrambled eggs earlier was washed and turned upside down on the rack. The mug with lemon and honey residue was wiped and put back in the cupboard. Even the lemon slices in the fridge were gone I threw them away like they'd never mattered.

I looked around one last time, standing still in the middle of the small living room. My eyes scanned every wall, every scratch on the floor, every memory I hadn't allowed myself to form.

Then came the knock.

Three gentle raps.

I opened the door slowly, already knowing who it was.

"Amara," said the soft, familiar voice of my old landlady, Miss Lota. She was short, hunched over from age but sharp-eyed and sturdy. She always wore thick eyeglasses and floral skirts, even when it was cold. 

"So, it's really today?"

I nodded, a soft smile tugging at my lips.

She peeked into the house behind me and let out a little laugh. "It still looks exactly the same. You barely left a trace in four years. Honestly, sometimes I wondered if you even lived here."

"I like it quietly," I said softly, handing her the key. "Thank you for letting me stay here."

She accepted it gently, nodding. "You were the easiest tenant I ever had. No complaints. No problems. Always on time. Like you were... just passing through."

I didn't answer that.

She looked at me for a moment, then gently patted my arm. "Take care of yourself, sweetheart. If ever you decide to come back, you'll know where to find me."

I nodded again. "Thank you, Miss Lota."

She left with a slow shuffle, holding the key like it was made of gold. And just like that, I was alone again. No more attachments. No more house. No more distractions.

I grabbed my old backpack the same one I brought when I first arrived here. Inside, it held only the basics...my ID, some cash, a journal, a spare hoodie, and one change of clothes. Everything else had been left behind or thrown away.

I slid on my oversized sweatshirt, the one that reached mid-thigh and covered most of my frame. Loose joggers. Worn sneakers. Headphones draped lazily around my neck like a quiet shield.

No makeup. No perfume. Just me.

Stepping outside, I closed the door behind me without looking back.

The walk to the station was uneventful. A tricycle took me to the terminal, and from there, I caught the shuttle to the airport. No one gave me a second glance, just how I preferred it. I pulled my hood up halfway and leaned my head against the window, watching the town blur by.

Small shops. Familiar trees. That one street I never walked at night. Gone now.

At the airport, I checked in without a word, declined assistance, and passed through security like a shadow. The waiting area was cold, too white, too clean, nothing like my rented house.

I sat near the window, the city in the distance covered by smog and sun, my oversized hoodie making me look even smaller as I pulled my knees up to my chest. My headphones were on now, music low, but steady. It wasn't to drown out noise.

It reminded me I was still here.

Still breathing.

Still moving forward.

Flight 710 bound for the city was called over the speaker.

I stood up slowly, tightening the strap of my backpack, and walked to the gate without hesitation.

No one to say goodbye to.

No one to wait for.

Just me, again.

And that was enough.