"You're leaving, aren't you, Luna?"
Next door, Mrs. Miller pushed open her creaky screen door, her dry silver hair a wild tangle in the morning light. She held a basket wrapped in old newspaper.
"Yeah, Mrs. Miller." I kept my voice steady, hiding the ache of goodbye.
"I knew it." She sighed, shoving the basket into my arms— fresh chocolate chip cookies, still warm. "A pretty girl like you will be happy anywhere."
My nose stung. In this city, I'd thought I was just a ghost, fleeing with a broken soul and a baby on the way. But now, kind neighbors peeked from their doors.
"Hey, Luna! Catch!"
Little Jacob from the third floor bounded down, thrusting a handmade blue blanket into my arms. The stitches were crooked, clearly a kid's work.
"For little Aiden," he said, shyly scratching his head. "Mom says the world's cold out there— don't let him catch a chill."
I knelt and hugged the boy. It made me think of my brother Aiden— if he were here, how he'd love seeing me with a kid.
"Thanks, Jacob. Tell your mom I'll miss her mac and cheese."
I looked around. Delivery guy Ramon handed me a box of candies from his hometown; Mr. Chen from the laundromat slipped me a red envelope, calling it a Chinese tradition. These ordinary folks' kindness patched up my battered heart like tiny lights.
After the shootout at our place, they must've guessed about Julian and Kirill, but they never mentioned it, just gave me space.
I was grateful to them, and this city. On the ruins Kirill left, San Francisco's warmth pieced me back together.
Before the airport, I had the driver detour to the nursing home.
It was where Luna worked, the one spot I felt worth something. The antiseptic smell in the wards was comforting, familiar.
"Oh, dear, you're really going back?"
Mr. Henderson sat in his wheelchair, once a tough dockworker, now struggling with a spoon. His cloudy eyes filled with tears as he gripped my hand, shaking.
"I have things to face, Mr. Henderson." I tucked his blanket gently. "I'll send you a postcard every day till you get sick of me."
"No one could get sick of you, Luna," he mumbled, clinging to my sleeve like a kid. "You're the only one who listens to my old stories."
At the nurses' station, I handed my friend Marianne a card with my private email.
"I'll miss the quiet here," I said softly, to them and myself.
Pushing through the doors, the outside world roared back.
A fleet of black Cadillacs idled curbside, drawing stares of awe and fear.
Kirill Orlov leaned against the middle one.
He wore a simple black cashmere coat, collar open over an expensive silk shirt. His left arm was still bandaged— I'd told him not to come, but he ignored me.
His face softened into something like tenderness at the sight of me.
He strode over, taking my suitcase with his good hand. "Ready, Harper?" His voice was low, raspy, like a cello in the night. "To go home."
"Let's go," I whispered.
I glanced back at this warm place one last time, then followed him into the car.
On the private jet home, I leaned against the window, holding sleeping Aiden. The little guy looked more like Kirill every day, especially those deep eye sockets, even when closed.
