The sunlight slipped through the thin curtains and landed straight on my face, warm but unwelcome.
I hadn't slept much. My dreams had been restless again, blurred faces, broken lights, a voice I couldn't place whispering my name through the noise.
When I finally gave up on sleep, the town was already awake.
Someone downstairs was frying garlic, and the scent crawled through the walls. Roosters crowed in uneven rhythm, followed by a child laughing somewhere in the distance.
Life here moved differently. Slow, deliberate, unbothered.
I wondered if I'd ever learn to breathe at its pace.
I swung my legs off the bed and sat for a moment, letting the stillness settle around me.
My reflection in the small mirror by the dresser looked like a stranger, bare face, tired eyes, hair falling loosely over my shoulders.
There was no trace of the woman they used to photograph under flashing lights.
I reached for my lighter on the table, the same silver one I carried everywhere, engraved with my initials. Old habit. Old comfort.
Outside, the sky was pale, the air crisp.
The rain from last night had left the town smelling of wet soil and old wood.
I stepped out to the balcony, the wooden planks creaking under my feet, and lit a cigarette.
The smoke curled upward, soft and steady, fading into the morning light.
There was something calming about the silence here.
No headlines, no whispers, no one waiting to see me fall apart again.
Just quiet. And maybe that was why I didn't notice the door next to mine open.
Footsteps echoed softly.
Then a voice.
"Good morning."
I turned my head, slow, deliberate.
Ken.
He stood there, hair slightly messy, wearing a clean white shirt and a watch that looked too polished for this town.
His tone was easy, casual, as if we'd known each other longer than a single awkward conversation.
I didn't answer.
I just took another drag from my cigarette and looked away, letting the smoke form a barrier between us.
He didn't seem bothered.
He smiled, a small, patient one and adjusted the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. "On your second cigarette for the day?"
Still nothing.
He laughed softly under his breath. "Right. Not a morning talker. Noted."
He started down the stairs, his footsteps light, confident.
I watched him for a second without meaning to.
There was something steady about the way he moved, like he belonged here, like he'd lived a hundred mornings exactly like this one.
But that didn't make sense.
He was new.
He said so himself.
When he reached the gate, he looked back briefly, the corners of his mouth lifting in that same calm half-smile. "See you around, neighbor."
I didn't respond.
I just exhaled the last of my smoke and crushed the cigarette on the railing.
See you around.
People always said things like that, as if promises could be disguised as politeness.
I turned back inside, shutting the door behind me.
The sound of his footsteps faded until there was nothing left but the quiet again.
And still, for reasons I couldn't explain, I felt the faintest pull in my chest, as if part of me wanted to follow the sound.
–
The rest of the morning passed in fragments.
A cup of coffee gone cold.
The sound of rainwater dripping from the roof.
The ticking of the old clock on the wall that I'd found here when I moved in.
Everything felt slow — too slow.
Maybe that's what I wanted when I left the city: stillness. A place where nothing demanded, nothing chased.
But quiet can be cruel when you have too much of it.
It gives your thoughts room to breathe, and mine never learned how to be kind.
I sat by the window, half-watching the street below.
An old man was sweeping fallen leaves from his doorstep. Across the road, a woman watered her plants, her radio humming a love song from a decade ago.
Normal. Simple.
Things that didn't exist in the world I used to live in.
Drake's name slipped into my head before I could stop it.
It always did when I least expected it, like a splinter under my skin that refused to heal.
I clenched my jaw and looked away.
He didn't deserve space in this quiet morning.
Not here.
Not anymore.
I tried to focus on the small things instead: the faint vibration of my phone on the table, a few unread messages from my manager, ignored calls from a publicist who still thought I could be convinced to come back.
I couldn't.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
I was still staring at the phone when a voice interrupted my thoughts.
"Back at it again?"
I blinked.
The voice came from outside.
Through the half-open window, I saw Ken standing near the gate, the same calm posture, the same knowing half-smile.
He was holding a small paper bag, probably breakfast from the store down the street.
He caught my eye. "You smoke too much," he said.
I looked down at the unlit cigarette between my fingers, then back at him. "And you talk too much."
That earned a soft laugh from him. "Maybe."
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
The morning stretched between us, quiet, fragile, almost familiar.
I hated that feeling.
Because it reminded me of something I couldn't name.
Ken broke the silence first. "You know, people here don't usually keep to themselves. They like knowing who lives next door."
"I'm not people," I said flatly.
He tilted his head, amused. "No, I figured you weren't."
Then, without waiting for a reply, he gave a small nod and started toward the street again, his steps unhurried.
"Where do you work?" I asked suddenly. I wasn't even sure why. Maybe curiosity. Maybe suspicion.
He turned, that same look in his eyes, steady, unreadable. "Here and there," he said. "Mostly helping out at the local clinic for now."
I frowned. "You're a doctor?"
He smiled faintly. "Something like that."
And before I could say anything else, he was gone, walking down the narrow road until his figure disappeared around the corner.
I stood by the window longer than I should have, staring at the empty street.
Something about him unsettled me.
The way he looked at me, calm, almost too calm, as if he already knew what I was going to say before I said it.
It wasn't an attraction. It wasn't even a curiosity. It was something else.
Recognition.
Like somewhere, somehow, we'd already met.
But that was impossible.
Wasn't it?