Every morning, a fresh bouquet of roses appeared at my shop door—no card, no sign of who left them. The gallery's door lock broke, and the next day a self-proclaimed "new locksmith in town" showed up offering free replacement. Even the usually cold supermarket owner suddenly greeted me with smiles, calling me a "special customer" and giving me fifty percent off.
"Here's your discount, Ms. Coleman." She handed me the receipt with an unsettlingly genuine smile.
"Thanks... but I don't remember signing up for membership."
"It's the boss's promotion," she said vaguely. "You're lucky."
Walking home with my shopping bags, unease spread through my chest.
Back home, I closed the shop early and started organizing a new shipment of handmade ceramics. These were custom pieces from an artist friend in Portland—each one delicate and requiring careful placement.
Leo slept peacefully in his cradle, cheeks rosy.
As I unpacked, the dust that stirred up triggered a familiar tightness in my chest.
"Cough, cough..." I gripped the shelf as breathing became difficult.
My asthma was flaring up. I instinctively reached for the inhaler in my pocket—empty.
"No..."
I frantically searched all my pockets—jacket pocket, pants pockets, apron pocket...
Nothing.
The inhaler was gone.
It must be in the bedroom.
My vision started blurring. Through the ringing in my ears, I stumbled toward the bedroom. Three steps in, my knees buckled and I crashed hard to the floor.
The loud crash woke Leo. The baby's cries mixed with my suffocation, tearing at my consciousness.
"Baby..." I reached helplessly toward the cradle, but my arm wouldn't respond.
Breathing became harder and harder.
Was I going to die?
"Leo..."
I stretched out my hand toward the cradle.
If I died, how could Lorenzo take care of him alone?
Just as consciousness began slipping away, a familiar voice cut through the fog.
"Noelle!"
Was I hallucinating?
"Fuck! Noelle!"
The glass door shattered with a tremendous crash, and I was enveloped by that familiar scent of cedar and tobacco.
"Kholod..." I struggled to open my eyes.
Kholod's pale face came into blurry focus—stubble disheveled, eyes sunken, but those amber eyes still burning bright.
