Outside, the May air was cold against my skin. Elk Grove lay quiet, windows glowing yellow like fireflies. I’d lived here my whole life, knew every street by heart—yet I felt like a stranger in my own town.
The cab arrived twelve minutes later.
The driver, a young man with long hair in a ponytail, smiled at me in the mirror. “Where to, ma’am?”
“34 Oak Street,” I said, sinking back into the seat.
“Rough day?” he asked gently.
“It’s a hard life,” I admitted, then regretted it.
But he only nodded like he understood. “It happens.”
We rode in silence while familiar places drifted by: the park where I’d pushed little Rosie on the swings, the school library where I worked nearly four decades, the bakery Humphrey and I visited every Sunday.
Humphrey.
I could almost hear him: Trix, don’t let them treat you like that.
He’d always been stronger than me. Better with boundaries. I… I just loved them too much.
At home, the house greeted me with stillness—an old, well-kept place on Oak Street, the last piece of my parents left to me. I made herbal tea like the doctor recommended, even though sleep had been a stranger since Humphrey died.
Upstairs, I sat by the window in my nightgown, tea warming my hands.