I suddenly realized I was sprawled on top of someone and scrambled to my feet, clutching the glasses in my hands, miraculously unbroken.
"I'm so sorry," I blurted as the man stood, brushing himself off.
"It's fine, it's fine,"he said with a smile. His shirt was drenched in wine—the kind that probably cost more than my monthly rent. The thought made my stomach twist. The last thing I needed was another expense added to my endless pile of debts.
"Are you alright?" he asked, his tone genuinely concerned.
That was when I really looked at him.
I didn't know him, but his features were flawless—sharp, striking, the kind you'd expect to see on the cover of a magazine or written into a novel as the unattainable male lead. But he wasn't fictional. He was real.
This wasn't love at first sight—just admiration.
"I'm fine,"I said quickly. "It's my fault. Your shirt…"My voice trailed off, guilt weighing on me.
He glanced down, then back at me with the same calm smile. "It's not a problem. Enjoy the night."
And just like that, he walked away.
I turned, watching him as he disappeared into the crowd. There was something about him—his presence lingered.
Then, abruptly, reality snapped back in.
I had completely forgotten what I was supposed to be doing.
******
That night, I realized who he was—Silver Anderson's fiancé. Lucky woman. He treated her as though she was more valuable than the most priceless object in the world.
And he had danced with her, still wearing that stained shirt.
After the party, exhaustion weighed on me as I dragged myself home. More bills had piled up—waiting like vultures at my doorstep. I punched in my apartment code, opened the door, and locked it behind me.
Slipping off my shoes, my eyes landed on empty bottles scattered across the floor. My mother had spent money on alcohol again. She couldn't pay the bills, yet she could afford this?
I sighed, biting back frustration as I stepped forward to confront her.
Then, I saw her—lying on the floor near the couch, an empty bottle clutched in her hand.
"Mum!" I shouted, my voice laced with anger.
She didn't stir. Normally, she'd snap awake at the sound of my yelling. But she didn't move.
I was furious, but I didn't want to deal with her in this state. So I left her there.
By morning, she was still on the floor, still unmoving. Irritation simmered inside me. I made breakfast for the both of us and headed out for another round of job hunting.
By the time I returned that evening, something felt off.
A pungent smell hung heavy in the air. Flies buzzed near the couch.
And as I stepped toward my mother—my breath caught in my throat.
She was still there. Still in the same position.
But she… looked different.
I froze, my breath hitching as realization clawed at my chest. She looked… decomposed.
I stumbled backward, still staring, refusing to believe what I was seeing.
"It can't be. It can't be. It can't be," I muttered over and over, my voice shaking, tears spilling uncontrollably down my cheeks.
No. Maybe she was just unconscious.
Desperation took over. I called an ambulance.
Later, they told me the truth—she had died yesterday.The cause? Alcohol poisoning.
The words hit me like a bullet. My mind reeled. I could have checked on her when I came home.I didn't. And now—now she was gone.
Foolish. Stupid. Careless.
I slapped myself, again and again, blaming myself for something I could never undo.
At the funeral, only Daniella stood beside me. No family. No condolences. Just the quiet weight of grief pressing against my chest.
Then, footsteps.
I turned—and there he was.
My father.
After all these years, he stood there, dressed casually—as if this was just another day. Like he was on his way to go golfing.
His voice broke the silence. "Lynette."
I didn't respond. I couldn't.The anger burned too deep.
He cleared his throat, then asked the one question that shattered whatever restraint I had left.
"She died?"
My fist clenched. My entire body went rigid. I turned to him, fury choking my words. "It's your fault!"
He scoffed. "What did I do? She was the one who told me to leave. I heard she died from alcohol poisoning—did I tell her to drink? She was a grown woman. She knew the consequences."
I blinked. I did not just hear that.
"D… Dad?" I whispered, struggling to process the callousness in his tone.
He avoided my gaze. "Life… some things happen, and you just have to move on. It's good you didn't end up like her."
Then, casually, he reached into the pocket of his white shorts.
Pulled out a hundred-dollar bill.
"Buy yourself something. I was on my way to golf with my family." He stretched the money toward me.
He glanced at the hundred-dollar bill, then back at me, his expression neutral—almost amused. His smile only made my blood boil.
In that moment, I hated him.
If they are your family, then what am I to him?
And what does he expect me to do with a hundred dollars?
He was a CEO. This was pocket change to him. An insult.
I exhaled, forcing my voice to stay steady. "Go to your family."
Then, I looked away, refusing to meet his gaze.
He hesitated, then started to put the money back into his pocket. But before he could—Daniella snatched it.
*****
Escorted by Daniella, we arrived at my apartment—only to be met with chaos.
My landlord stood outside, tossing my mother's belongings onto the street like they were nothing more than trash.
Panic gripped me. I rushed forward, pleading with him for more time. Just a few more days. But he refused. His answer was final.
I couldn't take my things to Daniella's place—her tiny apartment was barely livable as it was.
There was only one place left—my grandmother's house.
At least there, I wouldn't have to worry about being kicked out. She had owned it ever since my grandfather died—before I was even born.
Later that night, Daniella helped me pack whatever we could fit into a cab, and we drove toward the village.
When we arrived, I stepped out, standing in front of the old house. It looked exactly as it had years ago.Frozen in time.
We didn't unpack that night. We simply carried our bags inside, exhaustion weighing us down.
The house had no electricity, so we lit up the darkness with our phone flashlights.
Then, with nothing else to do, we lay down—on my mother's bed.
******
I closed my eyes, but sleep refused to come. Then, the noise started.
At first, I tried to ignore it, brushing it off as the usual creaks of an old house. But it grew louder, more persistent, until I couldn't take it anymore.
I sat up, grabbing my phone, its dim glow cutting through the darkness.
Then—a whisper.
I panicked, whipping my head around. No one .
*"Ella? Is that you?"My voice trembled, but the silence that followed was even worse.
The noise hadn't stopped. It was coming from somewhere deeper—the basement.
I hesitated, but curiosity clawed at me. Slowly, I opened the basement door, my heart hammering as I crept down the stairs.
Then—something crawled up my leg.
I flinched, kicking instinctively, my light darting downward. A rat.
I cursed under my breath. Enough.This was ridiculous. I turned back, ready to leave.
But then—I remembered.
The door to another dimension.
I swallowed hard. If I check and see nothing, will I become just like my mother? Returning every night, chasing a fantasy?
I hesitated for a moment longer—then turned around. Once. I'll try this just once.
Holding up my phone flashlight, I stepped forward, stopping in front of the old door. My fingers brushed against its worn handle. I gripped it. Twisted.
The door creaked open.
My breath hitched.
My eyes widened.
"Holy shit!"