The shed creaked with every gust of wind off the river. Its boards had warped long ago, leaving thin slits of moonlight that cut the darkness into pale stripes. Luxe sat with her back against the wall, her knees folded up, while Aurora curled beside her under the diner towel.
The apples hadn't been enough to fill their stomachs. Luxe's hunger was a gnawing, steady ache, but she didn't dare leave. Not when she couldn't shake the memory of the man at the lamppost.
She had learned long ago to listen for what didn't belong—the creak of a floorboard outside the dorm, the whisper of footsteps before a punishment, the whistle in a man's throat when he was lying. Now, she strained against the silence, waiting for something that would tell her the world hadn't forgotten them.
But the only sound was the river's endless hush and Aurora's soft, uneven breathing.
Sometime past midnight, Aurora stirred.
Her voice was a fragile thread. "Do you think she—Eileen—would have helped us if she knew the truth?"
"The truth about what?" Luxe asked.
Aurora shifted, her eyes glinting in the moonlight. "About the date. About…us not belonging."
Luxe thought of Eileen's smile, her easy way of sliding toast across the counter, her offhand comment about boring planners. There had been no suspicion there, only warmth.
"She helped because she saw two girls who needed it," Luxe said. "That's all anyone has to see."
Aurora pressed her face against Luxe's shoulder. "But what if more people see more?"
"Then we change what they're looking at." Luxe spoke firmly, though her chest tightened around the words. "We give them names, lies, stories—whatever keeps us safe."
Aurora didn't answer. Her hand found Luxe's, small and cold, and she held on until her breathing evened again.
Luxe stayed awake long after, eyes fixed on the crack of moonlight across the floorboards.
By dawn, the hunger was sharp enough that Luxe decided they couldn't linger.
They followed the river until the shed vanished behind them, then cut back into the city. Morning life had already begun to stir: shopkeepers propping open doors, women sweeping stoops, children tugging on their mothers' hands.
The smell of fresh bread curled from a bakery, rich and overwhelming. Aurora slowed at the window, staring at the rows of loaves stacked like golden bricks.
"Keep walking," Luxe murmured, tugging her sister's hand.
Aurora bit her lip but obeyed.
They reached a square where a cluster of vendors had set up carts. Fruit piled high in wooden crates, bright oranges and shiny red apples. Men shouted prices over one another, their voices sharp and competitive.
Luxe hesitated at the edge, calculating. They couldn't steal. Not here, not now. But maybe—just maybe—they could beg without being recognized as beggars.
Aurora caught her hesitation. "Luce, no—"
"Shh." Luxe squeezed her hand. "Just follow my lead."
They approached one of the stalls, where an older man with a thick mustache arranged peaches. Luxe cleared her throat.
"Excuse me, sir?" Her voice came out softer than she meant. She forced it steadier. "Our car broke down. We're trying to get south, but…" She gestured at their damp clothes, the mud still clinging to their shoes. "We don't have much."
The man looked them over, his brow furrowed. For a long moment, Luxe braced for him to shout or shove them away.
Instead, he sighed, reached into his crate, and pressed two peaches into her hands. "Here," he muttered. "Eat quick. Don't linger."
Aurora's eyes went wide. She whispered a thank-you, clutching her peach as if it were gold.
They ducked into an alley to eat. The fruit burst sweet and sticky, running down their chins. Aurora laughed quietly, wiping juice from her face.
"Maybe people here really are kind," she said.
"Or maybe they just don't look too close," Luxe replied. But she couldn't hide the way relief loosened her shoulders.
The relief didn't last.
As they rejoined the street, Luxe felt it again—that weight of eyes. She glanced back once, quick, and caught a man leaning at the corner of a hardware store. Different hat, different suit, but the same stillness. Too casual.
Her stomach dropped.
Aurora noticed her stiffen. "Is it him again?"
"Don't look," Luxe hissed. "Just walk."
They kept their pace steady, weaving into the crowd, but Luxe could feel the stare following. The distance between them and safety—if safety even existed—felt impossibly wide.
They turned down another street, then another, until Luxe was sure they had shaken him. Only then did she allow them to duck into a small park, where benches lined a stretch of grass.
Aurora sank onto one, her face pale. "He's following us, isn't he?"
"Maybe," Luxe admitted. She sat beside her sister, keeping her eyes scanning the street. "Or maybe we just stand out too much."
Aurora pressed her peach pit into her palm, her voice trembling. "What if they're not from here? What if they're from there?"
The compound. The cult. The Leader.
Luxe forced calm into her tone. "Then we run again. But until I see proof, we treat them like ordinary men. Nothing more."
Aurora nodded, though fear lingered in her eyes.
A church bell tolled in the distance. The sound carried across the city, heavy and old.
Luxe stood. "Come on. We can't stay still. We need somewhere safer than a bench."
Aurora rose reluctantly, her hand slipping into Luxe's again. Together, they walked back toward the streets, blending as best they could among the stream of morning life.
The city pulsed around them—shops opening, voices rising, music drifting faint from a radio inside a barbershop. For everyone else, it was just another day.
For Luxe and Aurora, it was the beginning of a world that wasn't supposed to exist.
And somewhere, not far behind, someone still watched.