Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Five. An Ice Cream Deal.
The sun shone brighter today. More birds chirped this morning. Everything felt perfect. Fresh coffee wafted through the air, curling in warm tendrils around Amelia's nose as she hummed to herself, some song she had heard playing on the radio. She rolled her eyes at the way it stuck to her head, but the corners of her lips twitched anyway.
Today was a good day.
Her wet hair clung to her shoulders in loose waves, still damp from the quick shower she'd taken. For once, she hadn't been startled by the noise from her basement. No darkness clawing at the corners of her vision, no whispers echoing in her ears. Just the sun, soft and warm, spilling through the half-closed blinds of her bedroom. She was right where she wanted to be.
Her bedroom floor was a mess of half-folded clothes and unpaired socks, but she moved through it with a kind of lightness that was foreign to her. A rare, fleeting kind of peace.
She tied her shoes, looping the laces tightly and tugging the tongue of the sneaker into place before straightening up and grabbing a red polo shirt from the bed. She slipped it over her head, adjusting the waist of her jorts. The morning warmth in the house didn't bother her as much today. Not like it usually did.
Something about last night (in the storm, with Steve being a pain in her ass) had made her feel something like purpose. And fear. Like they were getting closer to something. Something real. Something worth the bruises on her knees and the soaked shoes that still sat near the door, full of yesterday's rain.
She skipped down the stairs, almost tripping over her feet before padding into the hallway, the wooden floors creaking under her feet. Her fingers toyed with the loose pieces of denim hanging from her shorts, her head still full of imagined comebacks she didn't say last night, of possible futures where they figured it all out already.
The kitchen was quiet. No clattering plates or radio static. Just the low hum of the fridge and the faint ticking of the wall clock. The smell of her mother's coffee lingered in the air.
Amelia rounded the corner, already reaching for a mug from the cabinet, when she noticed him. Her body went still. He was there. Right there. Standing by the counter like he owned the place (well, he did), coffee already poured, newspaper folded beside his hand like it was any other morning, body clad in his black suit and tie.
Like he hadn't wrecked her childhood. Like he didn't still live in the ghostly shell of her worst memories.
Her father.
She froze mid-step, her hand curling around the mug like a reflex. Her fingers tightened slightly. She didn't expect to catch him there in the late morning. Her face instantly soured, and her shoulders suddenly felt heavier—but not enough for her mood swing to be obvious. Not enough for him to notice—unless he was looking.
