By the Book

Chapter Thirty-Four: Choosing My Path

The hospital's automatic doors slid closed behind us with a faint hiss, sealing in the antiseptic air and the quiet hum of machines. Outside, the world was blanketed in snow, soft flakes falling steadily through the glow of streetlights. The cold bit sharply at my skin, but I didn't feel it—not really. My body moved on autopilot, my legs carrying me toward Miles's car while my mind stayed trapped in the suffocating stillness of that hospital room.

Miles opened the passenger door without a word, his hand hovering just behind my back, a silent gesture of support. I sank into the seat, the leather cold against my legs, and stared out at the snow-covered parking lot. When the door shut, the muffled world outside disappeared entirely, leaving only the soft hum of the engine as Miles started the car.

The drive home stretched out like a dream, or maybe a nightmare. The snowflakes streaked past the window in a blur, turning the streetlights into halos of light. I barely registered the occasional bump in the road or the way Miles's hands gripped the wheel, his knuckles pale against the dark leather.

He glanced at me briefly, his profile illuminated by the glow of the dashboard. "I'll close the café for a few days," he said softly, his voice breaking the silence like a pebble dropped into still water. "Be here for you, for your family."

I turned my head slightly, but the words barely penetrated the haze in my mind. I tried to summon a response, but my tongue felt heavy, my lips unwilling to form the words. Instead, I looked back out the window, watching the snow fall heavier now, its relentless descent a quiet, inevitable force.

When we reached my apartment, everything felt too quiet. The lock clicked loudly as Miles turned the key, and the door creaked open, revealing the dimly lit space that should have felt like home but didn't.

The air inside was colder than I expected, and the shadows seemed sharper, the corners of the room darker. The familiar clutter of my life—shoes by the door, a mug left on the coffee table—felt foreign, like I was walking into someone else's memories.

I shrugged off my coat, draping it over the back of a chair without looking. My feet carried me toward my bedroom, the soft padding of Miles's footsteps behind me the only sound in the stillness. I stopped in the hallway, halfway to the closet, my hands limp at my sides. The weight of everything caught up to me all at once, pinning me in place.

Miles's voice was soft when he spoke, barely more than a murmur. "Kara."

I didn't turn around, but I felt his hand on my shoulder—gentle, grounding. He guided me back into the living room, his touch never faltering. "Sit," he said quietly, steering me toward the couch.

I sank onto the cushions, my arms wrapping instinctively around myself as though I could hold the pieces together. Miles crouched in front of me, his hands resting lightly on my knees as he looked up at me, his expression open and full of concern.

The words came slowly at first, hesitant and halting, but once they started, they didn't stop. "We lived in this tiny apartment when I was born," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "'A little shoebox,' we used to call it. When Tyler was born, we shared the bedroom, and my parents slept on a foldout couch in the living room."

Miles didn't speak, but his eyes stayed locked on mine, silently urging me to keep going.

"They worked so hard," I continued, my voice thick with emotion. "My dad had this idea for a business—a small café, actually, though it wasn't anything like yours. They made sandwiches and coffee, simple stuff. But it wasn't easy. I remember..." I swallowed hard, the memory pressing against my chest like a weight. "I remember watching them count change at the kitchen table, trying to scrape together enough to keep the lights on. I remember the nights they didn't eat because they wanted to make sure Tyler and I had enough."