A week into my new routine, I find myself breathing a little easier. It's not perfect—not by a long shot—but the act of working again feels like reclaiming a piece of myself. The desk in the corner of my room, though cramped and unimpressive, has become my haven. It's where I can pour myself into the lives of my clients, their stories a stark contrast to the chaos my own life has been.

Each session feels like a small victory. Listening to their voices on the other end of the call, hearing how their lives have shifted in the time I was unavailable, reminds me why I chose this path. These aren't just updates or pleasantries—they're confessions of survival, of growth. My clients aren't just fighting their own battles; they're winning them, little by little. Being a part of their progress again feels like light filtering into a room I hadn't realized was so dark.

The hours blur as I move from one story to the next. Some are heavy, laced with pain I can't fix but can help carry. Others are bright, moments of joy and hope that I cling to like a lifeline. There's something healing in being needed, in being able to guide someone else forward, even if I still feel stuck in some ways.

When I finally push back from the desk, my vision tired and my body stiff from hours of stillness, there's a quiet sense of satisfaction humming in my chest. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm contributing again, like I'm more than the fractured pieces I've been trying to hold together.

By the time the clock strikes three, I'm already in the car, heading to pick up Sapphire. Her presence is its own kind of therapy, a balm for the cracks I'm still trying to mend. The moment she climbs in, her voice fills the space, her words tumbling over each other in a rush of excitement. Her stories are bright and unfiltered, her energy unrelenting. I can't help but laugh, her cheer infectious as it pulls me further from my own thoughts.

Back at home, we spread her homework across the dining table, turning it into a battlefield of papers and pencils. As I guide her through her math problems, I'm struck by the simplicity of it all. This—helping her, being here for her—feels like a privilege I almost lost. Watching her concentrate, then light up with understanding, fills me with a quiet pride I didn't expect.

It's a reminder of what I'm working toward—not just for myself, but for her. For us.

The hour slips by too quickly, and before I know it, I'm driving her back to my parents' house.

Pulling into the driveway, I'm surprised to see Frida's car already there. I wasn't expecting her.

When I step out and see her struggling with an armful of bags and boxes, the exhaustion etched into her face is like a mirror of my own. I offer to help her, our movements in sync as we haul everything inside.

After dinner, when Frida heads upstairs to shower, I'm left alone with the remnants of the meal—and the guest list she's been curating for days. I skim through it idly, my mind already half elsewhere, until my eyes land on one name.

Damian Briggs.

The sight of it sends a ripple through me, an odd mix of emotions I can't quite name. It's been weeks since I last saw him, weeks since the unease of being watched had finally begun to fade. I'd convinced myself it was over, that he'd moved on—but seeing his name here brings it all rushing back.

I pause, the list trembling faintly in my hands as the memory of our last encounter flickers to life. The way his eyes held mine, dark and searching. The warmth of his breath on my skin, the gentle brush of his lips over my hands. It felt like a moment stolen out of time, strange and electric, but also unnervingly intimate.

I take a slow breath, trying to push the memory away, but it clings stubbornly, wrapping around me like a whisper of something unfinished. There's a weight to his presence I can't ignore, a pull I don't fully understand.

I shake my head, setting the list aside, but the thought of Damian lingers.

The sound of Frida's footsteps breaks my trance, her presence drawing me back to the present. She reappears dressed down, her loose, heather-gray sweater swallowing her frame, sleeves falling well past her wrists. It's the most undone I've seen her in ages—her hair pulled into a messy ponytail, her face free of the day's weight. There's a kind of peacefulness in the way she looks, a quiet confidence that I can't quite place.

She slides into the chair next to me, pulling it closer to the table, her eyes briefly scanning the guest list. For a moment, we sit in companionable silence, reviewing the names together, the weight of the conversation about the event not fully settling in.

I don't know what comes over me, but the question rises before I can stop it, drawn out by a blend of curiosity and something else I can't quite name.

"So... who's Damian Briggs?" I ask, my voice casual, though my fingers trace lightly over his name on the list as if it's just another detail. But even as I speak, the words feel charged, a part of me already bracing for her response.

Frida's eyes flicker up at me, her expression shifting for a brief second before she masks it. Surprise, followed by something that might be recognition or amusement. "Oh, Damian? He's a big-time investor," she says, her tone shifting to something more businesslike, but there's a little quirk of her mouth. "A lot of influence, lots of big projects. But good luck getting close—he's basically a ghost. Emails only, unless you're someone really important."

I can't help but laugh at the mock seriousness in her voice as she mimics him. It's a rare moment of levity between us, the tension that had been hovering over me for the last few minutes melting away. Still, the curiosity gnaws at me, deeper than I want to admit, and I find myself asking another question before I can stop myself.

"But is he... really like that?" I ask, trying to keep my tone light, but my eyes linger on her face, watching for the shift in her expression, the subtle clues she's good at hiding.

Frida shrugs, but her eyes don't leave the list right away. She pauses, as if mulling over the best way to explain. "More or less. He's secretive to a fault—no personal details, no photos, just projects. It's like he's a shadow, except for the money trail." A wry look crosses her face, and she chuckles softly, almost to herself. "Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if he comes from some old family fortune. The way he throws money around, it's like he was born knowing how."

Her words settle into the space between us, but my mind is already moving at a pace I can't quite keep up with. Damian Briggs. Handsome, elusive, and frustratingly closed off. Frida's description only adds to the enigma of him, leaving me with more questions than answers.

The thought of spending an entire weekend in the same room with him sends an uneasy flutter through me. I try to push it aside, but it lingers, like the shadow of a memory I'm trying to outrun.

I stand abruptly, the quiet hum of the house suddenly feeling too thick, too close. "I'm going to grab something from the kitchen," I say, my voice steady even as my pulse quickens.

Frida glances up, nodding absently as she keeps her eyes on the list. I make my way to the kitchen, my steps quick, too quick. I'm pretending to look for something, but in reality, my mind is already elsewhere.

I open the fridge, staring at the contents without really seeing them, my hand hovering over a bottle of water that I don't need. I glance over my shoulder, making sure Frida's still occupied. She's absorbed in the list, her attention elsewhere. Perfect.

My fingers instinctively reach for my phone. I unlock it quickly, my fingers flying over the screen as I search for Damian Briggs.

His name doesn't return many results, but the ones that do pop up are enough to make my stomach tighten. Articles about business deals, major investments, and high-profile projects. It's all professional—slick, clean, polished. There are no personal photos, no interviews, just facts, figures, and more layers of mystery.

There's one article that stands out—a brief mention of Damian Briggs partnering with an investment group to fund eco-projects, some of which are rumored to have controversial backers. The words are vague, more insinuation than confirmation, but it's enough to send a jolt of unease through me.

I scroll through a few more results, but none of them offer anything more personal. There's nothing to humanize him, to make him real. Just the cold, sterile facts of his professional life.

I place my phone back in my pocket. The quiet hum of the house surrounds me again, but it's different now. There's a weight to it, a heaviness that I can't shake.

I force myself to take a breath, steadying my hands as I grab the water bottle and make my way back to the dining room, pretending like nothing's changed, even though everything inside me feels different.

When I return to the table, Frida doesn't seem to notice the subtle shift in me. She's still deep in thought, and I can't help but wonder if I've already started walking down a path I'm not sure I can stop.

💻💻

The ringtone jolted me out of the steady hum of work, its shrill urgency slicing through my concentration like a knife. The caller ID flashed: Ms. Larson—Sapphire's Class Teacher. I excused myself hastily, answering with a sense of dread that only deepened as I listened to the teacher's calm yet ominous words: Sapphire didn't show up today.

A cold, clawing fear gripped my heart, twisting it until I could hardly breathe. I fumbled to end the session with my client, muttering apologies as I abandoned any pretense of professionalism. My hands trembled, scrambling for my keys, and before I knew it, I was speeding through the familiar streets, all of them blurring together in my panic. I had no idea what kind of reception awaited me at my parents' house, but none of that mattered. All that mattered was Sapphire.

Pulling up in front of the house, I sat frozen in the driver's seat, the walls and windows looming, half-familiar and haunting. Memories seeped from every corner—the warmth of family dinners, the harsh words on that last day, and the aching silence that had lingered between us ever since. I felt a twist of yearning mingled with resentment, and for a brief moment, I couldn't move. The past was a thick fog around me, smothering and paralyzing.

But the fear for Sapphire clawed its way through, pushing me out of the car. My feet stumbled as I approached, my heart slamming against my ribs, each beat laced with dread.

Then I heard it—a voice cutting through the haze, sweet and familiar.
"Ruby!"

I whipped around, and there she was, across the street, whole and unharmed.
Relief crashed over me in waves, leaving me weak-kneed as I raced toward her. I gathered her into my arms, holding her so tightly she gave a little squeak of protest. My hands skimmed over her shoulders, her hair, her face, reassuring myself that she was safe, even as I whispered scolding words.

"Blue, what happened? I've been so worried!" I tried to keep my voice steady, to hide the raw fear that had gripped me.

She looked up at me, her big eyes clouded with guilt. "I'm sorry, Ruby. I didn't want to scare you. I just... I didn't want go to school after this morning."

The worry softened into concern as I knelt to her level, my hands resting gently on her shoulders. "What happened?" I asked, searching her face for any trace of what might've led her here.

Her voice was small, almost fragile.
"Donald and I... we had a fight. I asked if you could come over, and Mama heard me. She got sad and went to her room, and then Donald yelled at me. He said I made her cry by even mentioning you."

Her words cut deep, each one a fresh bruise to my heart. Anger flared—sharp and immediate. I was furious with Donald, furious at the way he passive-aggressively distanced Sapphire from me, all while pretending to be the "better" sibling. I wanted to lash out, to confront him, but I didn't. Not now. Not in front of Sapphire.

I swallowed hard, trying to rein in the bubbling frustration, the resentment that simmered in my chest. I had no right to let that out on her—she had already carried too much.

Pulling her close, I stroked her hair, feeling the sting of unshed tears as my fingers worked through the soft strands.
"Oh, Blue," I murmured, my voice thick with emotion, "I'm so sorry. None of this is your fault. You didn't do anything wrong, sweetheart."

We sat there on Mrs. Patterson's porch, clinging to each other, and in her tight embrace, I could feel her need, her hope, her innocent desire for us to be a family again. It was so simple to her, just a wish to be together. I longed to tell her that it was possible, that her wish would come true, but the truth felt like a stone lodged in my throat, too heavy to speak.

"I just wanted us to be together," she whispered, her voice muffled against my shoulder.

My own voice was barely a whisper as I replied, "I know, honey. We will be—just in our own way, alright?"

I rocked her gently, wishing I could take her pain, her confusion, all the hurt she didn't deserve to carry.

After a moment, I glanced up, meeting Mrs. Patterson's gaze. She nodded in quiet understanding. I thanked her, then took Sapphire's hand, leading her back across the street.

As we walked, the weight of our fractured family hung between us, the innocence of her hope only intensifying the ache in my chest. When we reached the door, I paused, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. "Go get changed, alright? We'll get you to school," I said, forcing a smile, though my heart still thudded with the remnants of panic and sorrow.

She pouted, her lips forming the beginnings of a protest, but then, with a sigh, she nodded and headed to her room, her small figure disappearing down the hall. I stood in the entryway, the silence settling around me, thick with unsaid words and unhealed wounds. My eyes drifted to the familiar surroundings—the family photos, the faint scent of my mother's perfume lingering in the air. Part of me wanted to linger, to take it all in, but the pain that came with it was too sharp, too immediate.

For now, all I could do was be here for her, even if I couldn't give her the family reunion she longed for. The rest, I promised myself, I'd figure out—one way or another.

As Sapphire changed, I wandered through the house, each step stirring memories like leaves carried on a gust of wind. I traced the familiar path through the hallway, pausing at the mantlepiece where framed photographs lined the wall. I couldn't resist running my fingers over the glass, the edges cool against my skin as I lingered on images of us—laughing on summer days, my mother holding me close, all of us caught in a moment of joy I hadn't realized I still craved.

The nostalgia was overwhelming, a bittersweet tide that swept over me, leaving me breathless. These walls held more than just memories—they were the ghostly echo of everything I had lost. A surge of guilt gripped me, tight and unrelenting. I hadn't realized until this moment how much I'd ached for this place, for the warmth that used to fill it.

I moved deeper into the house, aimlessly, until I found myself outside Mama's door. The scent of her perfume, faint but unmistakable, curled around me. It was so familiar, so grounding, yet it sent a wave of longing through my chest. For a moment, I hesitated. I wasn't sure if I was welcome here—not after all this time, not after everything. My breath hitched in my throat as memories of harsh words and silences between us rushed back. But something inside me—the part of me that still needed her, still craved her presence—pushed me forward.

I gently turned the knob, the familiar creak of the door echoing in the stillness.

There she was, lying in repose, the soft rise and fall of her chest the only movement in the room. My mother, in all her vulnerability, looked so peaceful—almost like a stranger and yet the most familiar person I had ever known. The sight of her, so still, so serene, cracked something open inside me. Tears welled up in my eyes, but I held them back, not wanting to break down in front of her.

I crouched beside her, my fingers trembling as they hovered near her face, memorizing every detail. I had always been the one to seek solace in her presence—her soothing words, her gentle hands, her quiet strength. Now, seeing her so frail, so untouched by the world's troubles, made me feel both tender and desperate.

I traced the lines of her face, each one a story of years gone by, of love and sacrifice, of everything she had been through. Her once-youthful skin, now pale, still had a warmth that radiated in its softness, reminding me of the nights when I would curl up beside her, seeking comfort.

Her eyes, once so full of life, were closed now, but I could still see the remnants of their warmth in the way her eyelids fluttered ever so slightly. I wondered how much of my absence she had felt, how much she still carried in her heart.

With a shaky breath, I reached out, my fingers brushing a silver strand of hair, so different from the dark locks I remembered. I marveled at the quiet grace with which she aged—like the gentle fading of a masterpiece, each wrinkle, each silver hair a mark of the life she had lived.

I whispered her name softly, barely a breath. "Mama."

The word tasted like something precious, something I hadn't realized I'd been holding back for far too long. It felt like a prayer, like the only thing that could possibly bridge the chasm between us.

Tears slid down my cheeks, and this time, I didn't stop them. I let them flow, my chest aching with the weight of everything I hadn't allowed myself to feel until now. She was here. She was still here, and I was too—standing beside her, letting go of all the walls I'd built between us.

And then, in the quiet, she stirred. Just the slightest movement, the softest sigh, but it was enough to stop my heart in my chest.

I froze. My breath caught. Was this it? Was I about to wake her up, bring back all the years we'd spent apart, all the unspoken things between us?

Her eyes fluttered open, slow and blurry at first, then focused on me, and in that moment, the world seemed to still. There was surprise in her gaze, but also something more—something deeper, something unspoken. The years of silence, the hurt, the longing... It was all there in that look.

"Ruby?" Her voice was barely more than a breath, but it hit me like a wave. The softness, the familiarity, it broke me open even more.

I could only nod, my own voice a captive inside my chest. I didn't trust myself to speak—there were no words for this moment, no way to articulate the flood of emotions rushing through me.

Instead, I just sat there, beside her, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, we shared the silence. Just the quiet of two people who had once been everything to each other, and still might be, despite everything.