Fractured Hearts

Chapter 5

Rays of morning sunlight stream through the café's antique windows, casting a warm glow over the scattered tables and chairs.

I rub my eyes, blinking away the last traces of sleep, and push myself up from the cold, unforgiving floor.

My stiff joints protest with every movement, a sharp reminder of how uncomfortable last night's rest was.

The events of the previous evening come rushing back, crashing over me like a relentless wave.

Memories of Michael and Mum replay in my mind, sharp and intrusive.

It seems like Michael has already wormed his way into Mum's good graces.

Anxiety knots in my chest as I picture his smug, creepy smile, that ever-present cigarette dangling from his yellow-stained teeth.

I shudder, forcing the thoughts away.

Home isn't something I can deal with right now.

Instead, something else pushes its way to the front of my mind.

Damon. Why was he... kind?

His behavior doesn't make sense, yet there's an unsettling quality about him that I can't quite shake.

The way he carries himself, that aura of danger—it's unnerving. What if he's a drug dealer?

Or some sort of... gang thingy? A gangster?

A small giggle escapes my lips despite myself at the thought of him seriously introducing himself as a gangster.

The idea feels utterly ridiculous, especially considering I once called myself one at twelve, blissfully unaware of what it actually entailed.

Yet, a shiver of uncertainty lingers at the back of my mind.

I should know better than to judge someone's life without truly knowing them.

But why am I even thinking about him?

The guy shoved a cupcake in my face, after all.

I have no business wondering what kind of person he is.

Shaking off my wandering thoughts, I force myself to focus on the day ahead.

I'm already at the café; I might as well make myself useful.

I head to the back room and load a tray of fresh croissants into the oven.

The warmth begins to chase away the chill that settled in my bones.

While they bake, I busy myself frosting the cupcakes Susan made yesterday, carefully decorating each one with swirls of icing, colorful sprinkles, and delicate edible flowers—anything to keep my hands and mind occupied.

After opening the café and with still no sign of Susan, I spend the morning serving customers, mostly crafting countless cups of coffee.

I don't blame them; it's that kind of morning.

The door jingles, and Susan and Henry walk in hand in hand.

Seeing them together warms my heart, a quiet reminder of the love they share.

I rush over and wrap them both in a hug.

"Hey, kiddo," Henry greets me cheerfully.

"Good morning, Elora," Susan adds, pulling me into a warm embrace.

But when I glance up at Susan, her usual smile falters, replaced by a puzzled expression, her brows knitting together.

"Elora, honey, why do you smell like... cigarettes?"