Morning came thin and grey, like someone had drained the color out of the sky. The house smelled of toast and cinnamon — Mom's way of making peace without words. A plate waited for me on the kitchen counter: two slices of buttered bread, an egg fried in the middle like a heart. I stood in the doorway for a heartbeat, my bag slung over my shoulder. My stomach clenched but not from hunger.
I couldn't sit at the table and pretend. Not yet.
I slipped out before Mom or Bryan came downstairs. My shoes were silent on the porch steps. The street was damp with last night's rain. My hands shook as I dug for my keys.
Back inside, Mom padded to my room in her slippers, a napkin in her hand like a white flag. She tapped on my door. "Arya?" she called, softer than she had last night. "I made breakfast. Come eat. We…we shouldn't go to bed angry."
Silence. She turned the knob just enough to see the neat bed, the stacked notebooks, the empty room. Her mouth tightened. She let the napkin fall onto the floor.
•
The newsroom smelled of old coffee and printer toner. Phones rang, keys clacked. My cubicle was wedged between the water cooler and the photo desk — a little box of papers and deadlines. I slid into my chair and powered up my laptop, head bent low.
"Big day for you," my editor called from his office, eyes never leaving the screen. "The town council's environmental hearing. Take good notes. We'll need a piece by tonight."
"Got it," I said. My voice was even. That was my trick: always sound even. Even when my chest felt hollow, even when my stomach was twisting itself into knots.
By late afternoon I was sitting in the back of a windowless hall while officials argued about water runoff and property taxes. My pen scratched across the page, but the words didn't stick. My mind kept circling home: Mom's face, Bryan's slumped shoulders, the way the fight had unspooled last night. The way I'd snapped. The way no one knew.
At four I filed my notes and left. Outside, the sun was low and pale, the wind sharp enough to make my eyes water. My stomach growled — a hollow, angry sound. I hadn't eaten since yesterday. I tightened my scarf and started walking.
Block by block the city blurred. Shop signs flickered, buses hissed to stops, children's voices rose and fell. My feet felt heavy, but my head felt lighter than air, full of static and echoes of last night's words: You don't know how hard I'm trying. No one knows what I'm going through.
The silver car came out of nowhere — a lunge of chrome and horn.
Everything slowed. Not slowed — stopped.
The car froze mid-screech, a perfect sculpture of motionless terror. The driver's mouth hung open but no sound came. A child on the corner stood with one foot off the curb, shoelace floating in the air like a ribbon. Wind stopped. Leaves hung mid-tumble. The city became a photograph.
My breath hitched. My bag slid off my shoulder and hit the frozen sidewalk with a dull thud. It was the only sound.
"What the…" My voice cracked. "What the hell is happening?"
A figure stepped out from behind the still car. He moved easily, untouched by the stillness. A dark coat, hair falling over his forehead, eyes like stormlight. He walked toward me as if he had all the time in the world.
"You did this?" My words came out high, thin.
He smiled — not wide, but slow, as if smiling were a habit he'd forgotten.
"That's impossible," I whispered.
He bent slightly at the waist, voice a low ripple: "Fun to see life flash before your eyes, isn't it?"
The hairs on my arms rose. Cold crawled over my skin. My nails dug into my palms, little crescents of pain. Every instinct in me screamed to run.
I ran.
I ran past the frozen car, past the frozen people, through a crosswalk where pigeons hung mid-flap like origami. My boots slapped against the pavement, echoing in the dead-still world.
Behind me, footsteps? No. Just the soft sound of him walking. Not fast, not even trying. Yet no matter how many turns I took, he was there — a dark shape at the edge of my vision, always the same distance away.
My lungs burned. My chest hurt. I ducked into an alley — narrow, damp, brick walls sweating with rainwater. My breath came in ragged gasps, fogging the cold air.
He stepped into the alley after me. Still walking. Still calm.
"Please…" My voice cracked. My back hit the wall. "Please don't kill me."
He stopped a few feet away. His head tilted slightly, like a bird studying a trapped insect. The still world pressed in around us, no wind, no sound. Just him and me.
"I'm not here to kill you," he said quietly. "Not yet."