Even from here, it looks large. It faces the cliffs with gardens stretching around it.
There’s a strange pressure inside my head, like a moth trapped beneath my skull, beating its wings to escape. My thoughts crash into each other—too many, too loud. My chest tightens until it almost burns, my heart racing so fast it scares me.
For a second, I think this is it. That I might die right here, after everything. That this long journey ends with my heart giving out before I even reach the door.
And the worst part is… I don’t think I’d fight it.
Death doesn’t scare me. Being alive does.
Because if I walk up to that house and they turn me away, then what? I have nothing left to fall back on. Nothing but the weight of myself becoming someone else’s burden.
I had everything, now I have almost nothing. I can’t lose this too.
If I do, I know it will break something in me that can’t be fixed.
The white rose is still in my hand. I’m gripping it too tightly. A thorn presses into my skin, then deeper, until I feel the sting and warmth of blood, but I don’t let go. I keep walking.
Closer now, the details of the property begin to sharpen.
To the right, near the cliffs, a white pavilion is wrapped in red and white roses climbing over its wooden frame. A narrow path curves toward it, leading further down where stone steps disappear toward the beach below. I can’t see the shore, but I can hear it.
Ahead, the dirt path fades into a smooth pavement, stretching right towards two parked cars. Nearby, a man tends to the garden, pruning shears in hand, his black jumpsuit smudged with soil.
He looks up when he notices me watching.
For a moment, we just stand there. Then he lifts a hand and waves.
I force a smile and wave back.
He probably thinks I’m just another lunatic, running from office walls or trays full of strangers’ orders. There’s nothing wrong with that kind of work. It’s just… I hate people. And this job feels like it was made for me.
Alone.
Right now, that’s all I need.
Three steps lead up to a black wooden door, roses carved deep into the surface. I stop in front of it, my hand hovering inches away, waiting for my courage to catch up with me.
The door opens before I can knock.
An older woman stands in front of me, her dark hair pulled into a sleek, tight bun. Her posture is straight, almost too stiff. She wears a black pencil skirt that falls just above her knees and a fitted, three-button jacket, structured like a blazer. Beneath it, a white blouse is buttoned all the way to her neck.
Her eyes settle on me.
“Miss Vale, I assume.” She lifts a brow, her gaze moving from my face down to my shoes. “You’re early.”
“Yes,” I say, my hand half-raised between us.
She doesn’t take it. Don’t even look at it. Instead, she steps aside, pulling the door open wider.
“Come inside.”
I nod and step past her.
The house is bigger than I imagined. The floor beneath me is dark wood, softened by deep brown carpet. The walls are painted a rich green, lined with framed pieces that feel older than the house itself. At the end of the hallway, glass doors open toward the garden. And to the right, a wooden staircase curves upward.
The woman opens a door to the left and gestures for me to enter.
Black, polished leather sofas face each other. Bookshelves climb the entire left wall, filled from floor to ceiling. On the right, a fireplace stands beneath a row of painted portraits, their eyes almost too real, as if they’ve been watching this room for years.
