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People lined the streets as Florence trekked downtown, shoving her hands into the pockets of her jacket. The warm afternoon sun settled onto her shoulders, casting soft shadows on the pavement as she weaved through the crowd. It wasn't usually her thing to do breaks outside—most of the time she would stick to the quiet, empty corners at HQ—but recently, she'd started craving something different. A taste of the world beyond sterile walls.
She turned onto a quieter street. The buzz of traffic fell into the background, and the soft hum of life filled the air. A street musician sat on the curb, strumming a melancholy tune from an old guitar, his hat on the ground collecting loose change. She would've offered him some coins, if she even had any herself. Above, birds perched on telephone wires, their soft chatter accompanying the smell of freshly baked bread wafting from a bakers window. Florence looked at them a moment, envying that simplicity. It must have been nice having no responsibilities—just to exist. She let out a sigh, continuing further on down the sidewalk as the music faded behind her into the city.
Her mind circled back to the phone calls she'd been having with Teresa. They'd been happening more often of late, and Florence couldn't help but confess how much she was beginning to look forward to them. Teresa was different. She was no longer a nameless, faceless individual that Florence had been assigned to speak to. She felt more and more like a real... friend. Florence hadn't experienced in quite some time. In fact, she couldn't even say she'd experienced it at all. Their conversations flowed effortlessly, even when they spoke little about anything. It was comforting, like finding a small quiet space in the middle of a raging storm. For Florence, it would mean more than she could admit, even to herself.
She passed a group of construction workers who sat on a low wall, their voices carrying over the din of the city. The tall, lanky one—he had a bright laugh—was nattering on about how he couldn't wait to get home for dinner. "My wife's making stew tonight," he said, grinning toothily as he took a long sip from his cardboard coffee cup. "And the kids have been begging me to play soccer with them after. I'm telling you, they don't let me rest." The remaining workers laughed.
Florence slowed her pace, heart sinking. She tried to picture what it might be like, to go home to something like that. To a family, to a house, warm and alive. To a home.
No matter how hard she tried to conjure an image, nothing came to mind. No faces, no voices, no memories. Just vast gaps where they should've been.
Florence found that she had stopped in the middle of the street, her chest tightening. The ache of longing hit her at once: sharp and sudden. Like a snake, something coiled around her throat and squeezed. No family waited for her, no home full of love. There was no past she could reach blindly for, no roots she could feel beneath her feet. All she had was the gaping, gnawing question of who she was and where she came from.
A great, booming laugh erupted from one of the builders behind her and snapped her out of her reverie. Florence paused, although she could still feel the twisting dagger carving its way deeper and deeper into her chest. It sounded so real, so carefree, the kind that hurt your ribs and gave you backache. She didn't even know when last she'd come close to that. Not for as long as she could recall, at any rate.
