Her phone buzzed where it lay on the desk, the screen lighting up with Oliver’s name. She stared at it for a moment before sliding it face down. She wasn’t ready to hear his clipped, efficient tone reminding her about dinner with his parents next week, about how she should wear the blue dress because his mother liked it.
She wasn’t ready to play the role of the perfect fiancée.
You agreed to this, Clara.
She had. For her parents’ sake. For the house, the gardens, the library her father could no longer manage, and her mother couldn’t imagine leaving. Oliver was respectable, wealthy, her childhood friend. He’d offered a solution at a time when everything had been about to collapse. She’d said yes, and her parents had exhaled as though she’d saved them.
But she wasn’t sure who would save her.
She returned the fragment to its sleeve and stripped off the gloves, flexing her fingers. Her reflection in the glass of the display case caught her attention: neat hair pulled into a twist, dark coat on the chair behind her, a woman who looked composed. Polished, as Oliver liked to say. She wondered what a stranger would see. Someone who belonged? Or someone who didn’t?
The ache behind her eyes told her it was time to stop for the night. She packed the parchment away, logged the catalogue number, and shrugged into her coat. The archive’s lights dimmed as she keyed out, leaving the exhibits to their shadows.
Outside, the city was damp from a late shower, the pavement slick beneath the streetlamps. Clara tugged her scarf tighter and started down the steps, her bag heavy with notebooks and a small sandwich she’d forgotten to eat.
She always walked home when she could. It cleared her head, gave her a slice of solitude between the quiet order of the museum and the expectations waiting at her flat. Tonight, though, something about the air felt different. Not dangerous exactly, but aware.
She glanced over her shoulder. Nothing unusual, just the swirl of traffic, a couple talking under an umbrella, a cyclist cutting through the intersection. Still, the small hairs at the back of her neck rose.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath. She wasn’t a heroine in one of the novels she kept hidden behind the museum journals on her bookshelf. She was a woman with too many responsibilities and a wedding dress her mother had already cried over twice.
Yet the feeling lingered as she walked. A shadow too steady across the street. A shape that paused when she paused at the light. She told herself she was imagining it, that exhaustion made the city sharper than it was.
Her phone buzzed. Oliver, again. She didn’t answer.
At her building, she keyed herself in quickly, pressing the heavy door shut behind her with more force than necessary. Inside the lobby, she paused, hand flat against the wood, heart beating faster than the climb up two flights of stairs should demand.
She was safe here. She told herself that twice, then three times. Still, when she reached her flat, she closed the curtains before taking off her coat. And for one suspended moment, as the fabric slid across the rail, she swore she felt someone’s eyes on her from the street below.
She shook it off and went about her routine. Coat hung on the hook, bag on the chair. She set her notebooks on the kitchen counter, where a week’s worth of unopened mail leaned in a precarious pile. She peeled back the wrapper on the sandwichshe’d forgotten to eat and sat cross-legged on the small sofa, chewing without appetite.
The flat was tidy, curated the way her parents had raised her to be, matching cushions, framed prints of landscapes, everything in its place. But there were small rebellions tucked in: a stack of well-worn fantasy novels behind the museum journals on the bookshelf, a chipped mug from university with a sarcastic slogan, and a bright yellow throw her mother had once declared “too loud”, but that Clara refused to hide.
Her phone buzzed. This time it wasn’t Oliver.
She smiled before she even saw the name. Lena.
Clara answered on the second ring. “You’re up late.”
“I’m always up late,” Lena replied, her voice a mix of dry humour and warmth. “Unlike you, Miss Sensible Bedtime. Please tell me you’re not still at the museum polishing Latin inscriptions.”
Clara laughed quietly. “Not polishing. Cataloguing. And yes, I just got in.”
“You need a hobby.”
“I have one.”
“Work doesn’t count, Clara.”
Clara settled deeper into the sofa, pulling the yellow throw over her legs. “Somebody has to keep history from crumbling.”
“And somebody has to keep you from crumbling. Lucky for you, I appointed myself years ago.”
That was true enough. Lena had been loud, mischievous, and unapologetically herself from the first day of boarding school. Where Clara had been quiet, careful, always measured, Lena had burst into rooms like she owned them. Their parents had disapproved of the friendship almost instantly. “A bad influence,” Clara’s mother had whispered after discovering Lena had dyed her hair purple that term. “And you know she’s…”
Clara had stopped listening after that. Lena had been the first person to make her laugh until her ribs ached, the first to tell her it was all right not to be perfect.
Now, years later, Lena still had that effect.
