3
ELLA
Morning arrived slowly, light easing through the thin curtains instead of barging in the way it did back home. For a few seconds, half-awake, I forgot where I was. The ceiling above me was unfamiliar, pale and slightly cracked near the corner. The room smelled faintly of soap and old wood.
Then memory slid into place.
Paris.
Rose.
The apartment.
I lay still, staring upward, letting the reality settle without fighting it. Grief felt different in daylight. Less sharp, more pervasive. A dull ache instead of a blade. Something you could almost pretend wasn’t there until you moved wrong and it flared again.
Outside, the city was already awake. Voices drifted up from the street. A scooter whined past. Someone laughed, loud and unselfconscious. Life moving forward, whether I caught up or not.
I rolled onto my side and reached for my phone.
Three messages from friends in New York. One from my editor, reminding me gently about a freelance deadline I still technically had. And a missed call from my mother sometime after midnight, which would have been early evening back home.
I winced.
They’d been worried about me traveling alone, even though I’d insisted I needed to do this. Needed to see where Rose had been living, needed to untangle the practical mess she’d left behind. And, though I hadn’t said it out loud, needed to understand why she’d kept so much of it hidden.
I pushed myself upright and swung my feet to the floor, grabbing the sweater I’d dropped over a chair the night before. The apartment felt different in morning light. Less haunted. Just … lived in.
I made coffee with Rose’s small machine, leaning against the counter while it sputtered awake. Steam fogged the window over the sink, and for a moment I imagined her standing here, half-dressed, answering emails before rushing out the door. Ordinary mornings I’d never known she was having.
My chest tightened.
I picked up my phone and called home.
It rang twice before my mother answered.
“Ella?” Relief flooded her voice instantly. “Honey, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Mom. I made it in last night. Everything’s okay.”
“Oh, thank God.” A muffled sound as she shifted the phone. “Charles, it’s Ella.”
I smiled faintly at the familiar use of my father’s first name. My parents had always done that, like they were still dating instead of having been married for thirty-five years.
My father’s voice came on a second later, warm but tired. “You got there safely?”
“I did. Apartment’s … nice. Comfortable.” I hesitated. “Rose picked well.”
Silence settled for a beat. Not awkward. Just heavy.
My mother filled it. “How are you feeling?”
“Jet-lagged,” I said lightly, though we all knew that wasn’t what she meant. “But ready. I’m going to start figuring things out today. Her accounts, the lease, all that.”
My father exhaled quietly. “Good. That’s good.”
I stared at the mug in my hands, thinking of the man’s jacket still hanging in the bedroom. The second toothbrush. The mug that didn’t match.
I didn’t mention any of it.
