Two years.
It still amazes me how easily time disappears when you stop running.
Downtown Boise hummed around me—lively but never overwhelming. Street musicians played soft guitar riffs on the corners, someone roasted coffee beans in a cart that filled the air with that warm, bitter sweetness, and autumn leaves gathered along the curbs like little golden secrets. I loved it here. It was busy enough that no one looked too closely, quiet enough that I could finally breathe.
I shifted the shopping bags on my arm and took another sip of my lavender latte, the foam leaving a faint mustache on my lip. The drink had become a small ritual, a comfort I didn't know I'd needed until I found it.
My reflection in a boutique window caught my eye. The woman staring back at me was unrecognizable.Short, wavy hair—now a soft chestnut with sunlit streaks. Comfortable jeans. A loose beige sweater. Sneakers instead of heels. I smiled faintly at her. Clara, not Ava.
Ava had drowned two years ago, gasping beneath a glass tank in front of hundreds of people. The world had cried for her, mourned her, speculated about her death. They'd written articles, posted tributes, made videos dissecting the "mystery."No one ever imagined she'd be standing here now, alive, holding a coffee cup in a quiet city she'd never even visited before that night.
I turned from the window and kept walking. The cool air smelled faintly of rain and cinnamon. Boise in October was perfect—crisp, calm, and filled with people who didn't know me, didn't expect anything from me.
"Morning, Clara!"
I looked up to see Daniel waving from behind the glass door of his bookstore. His grin was wide beneath his scruffy beard.
"Morning!" I called back.
He pushed the door open just enough to say, "Got a new shipment of mysteries in today! You'll like these—dark and clever, just your type."
I laughed. "I'll stop by later, promise!"
He winked and disappeared back inside.
Of course, Clara wasn't my real name. Not legally. Not truly. But it was the one I'd chosen. The one I'd built from scratch. It had taken months before I stopped flinching when someone said it.New name. New address. New habits. A life made entirely of quiet choices and careful erasures.
And the best part? No one here cared who I used to be.
"Clara!"
Jess came jogging up the street, scarf flying, her curls bouncing wildly. She grinned, breathless, and looped her arm through mine.
"You're late," she said, mock scolding.
"It's eleven-oh-five," I teased. "Relax, you're not the time police."
She snorted. "You say that, but last week you were ten minutes early and acted like you'd committed a crime."
"Different day, different mood."
We both laughed. With Jess, everything felt easy. She was the first real friend I'd made here—smart, loud, fiercely loyal. And, thankfully, never curious enough to pry into my past.
"So," she said, eyes gleaming, "you coming to dinner tonight? Everyone's dying to hear your opinion on my 'experimental lasagna.'"
"Experimental sounds terrifying," I said. "But sure, I'll risk it."
"Good. Bring dessert. I'm thinking lemon pie."
I rolled my eyes but nodded. "Fine, fine."
We ducked into a vintage shop, the little bell above the door chiming as we entered. The air smelled like cedar and dust and faint perfume. Light spilled through the front window, turning the floating dust into glitter. Jess immediately dove into a rack of jackets, humming to herself.
"You should try this one!" she said, holding up a deep red coat.
"I don't need another jacket."
"You say that every week."
I sighed and tried it on anyway. It fit perfectly, the fabric warm and soft against my skin. When I turned toward the mirror, the reflection stopped me cold for just a second.
For a heartbeat, I didn't see Clara. I saw Ava—the girl in white silk, hair slicked back, eyes wide behind the glass. The one who had vanished into water and applause.
Then the vision blinked away. Just me again. Clara. Safe.
Jess caught my expression and frowned. "You okay?"
"Yeah," I said quickly. "Just thinking."
"About?"
"About how good I look in red."
That earned a laugh, and the moment passed.
We spent another hour shopping, then grabbed lunch from a food truck parked by the fountain. She told me about her art commissions, about a date that went "weirdly well," about how she was finally taking a vacation next month. I smiled, listened, responded in all the right places. The rhythm of normal life—it was comforting, like a song I'd finally learned to hum along to.
After we said goodbye, I wandered alone for a bit, letting the city guide me. Boise wasn't glamorous, but it had a heartbeat—a rhythm I'd grown to love. Families pushing strollers. Teenagers skating down sidewalks. Dogs tugging leashes. The ordinary pulse of a world that didn't know my name.
I passed a newsstand and caught a headline about a new stage illusionist touring the country. For a second, curiosity tugged at me. Then I turned away. I didn't need to see it. I'd had my stage, my applause, my escape.
At the farmer's market, I bought a bouquet of white lilies from an elderly woman with a soft accent.
"For someone special?" she asked as she wrapped them.
I smiled faintly. "Something like that."
Back home, I placed them on the kitchen table, their scent filling my apartment. The space was small but perfect—sunlight spilling across pale curtains, a faint hum of traffic below, potted plants lining the windowsill.
I filled the kettle, turned on the stove, and leaned against the counter, listening to it slowly begin to whistle. The quiet was what I loved most. No stage directions. No phone vibrating with threats. No whispers of blackmail.
Sometimes I still thought about him. The man who had cornered me, controlled me, blackmailed me into silence. He was the only one who'd ever said my name—Ava—like it was both a weapon and a secret.
He'd taken that name from me long before I gave it up.
But now, even if he was still out there somewhere, he couldn't touch me. He couldn't reach Clara.
That night, my friends and I met for dinner at a rooftop restaurant. Jess was already there, laughing with Daniel and a few others. We clinked glasses, traded jokes, and watched the city lights shimmer below. I let myself laugh easily, freely.
For a while, I almost forgot that the world had once known me differently.
"Clara," Jess said, tilting her head, "you've got this way about you—you're calm, but mysterious. Like you've lived nine lives already."
"Maybe I have," I said.
She smiled, shrugging it off. To her, it was just banter. To me, it was the closest thing to truth I could ever say out loud.
Later, walking home under the streetlights, I felt that same quiet contentment settle over me. The kind that used to feel impossible. The kind I used to dream about when the world was crashing down.
Boise was different at night—gentle shadows, soft noise, the hum of distant traffic. I tucked my hands into my pockets and slowed my pace, taking it all in.
When I reached my building, I paused at the glass door. My reflection stared back—hair tousled, jacket crooked, calm eyes. She looked nothing like the woman who'd fallen out of the world two years ago.
I smirked a little. "Ava's gone," I murmured. "That's fine."
Then I pushed open the door and stepped inside.