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Still, my mind drifts elsewhere. To another place. Another face. Another life.

Nicolas.

No matter how much I try to focus on the children, the foundation, the moment in front of me—he lingers. I can almost picture him standing at the crowd's edge, arms crossed, scanning for threats. The quiet power he carries, the way his presence commands a room. I swear, if I close my eyes for just a second, I can feel the brush of his jacket sleeve against my skin.

I exhale sharply, shaking off the thought. Instead, I focus on the small hands reaching for comfort, nourishment, and something safe.

Later, when I return home, I step into my modest living room, switch on the overhead light, and set my keys on the worn coffee table. The space is small, and the furniture simple—nothing like the sprawling mansion I shared with Nicolas.

But it’s mine.

It’s quiet. Uncomplicated. Free of the ghosts that lurked in every corner of his world.

I sink onto the couch, exhaustion weighing heavy in my bones. But even as fatigue pulls at me, my mind drifts where it always does—to him.

Nicolas.

I press my fists into my lap, squeezing my eyes shut. He’s everywhere and nowhere at once. His presence lingers in my thoughts, in the quiet moments between heartbeats, in the spaces where I once found comfort.

The ache swells inside me, tangled with guilt and something sharper—anger. Anger at the choices he’s made. At the world he refuses to leave behind. And the fact that despite everything, Istillmiss him.

And tonight, it’s worse.

Maybe it’s because of the little boy and his sister at the foundation. Perhaps because they reminded me that even when my own family turned their back on me,Nicolas never did.

The thought unsettles me. I push off the couch and grab my jacket, craving fresh air and needing space from the war raging in my head.

I walk.

Farther than usual.

My thoughts spiral with every step.Should I go back? Should I hold my ground? Did I sign those divorce papers too quickly?

The questions press in relentlessly, and for the first time, I don’t know if I have an answer.

I barely register when the streetlights grow fewer, or when the steady hum of passing pedestrians fades into silence. My feet slow as I glance up, realizing I’ve wandered into unfamiliar territory. To my left, an old warehouse looms, its broken windows gaping like empty eyes. Rust streaks the metal siding, and the air carries the damp, decayed scent of rotting wood.

A sudden clatter behind me.

My heart jumps.

I whip around, scanning the dim alley. Shadows stretch long across the pavement, shifting over stacked crates and discarded trash. Nothing moves. Nothing breathes. But the air feels different now.

Charged.

Like I’m not alone.

I turn to retrace my steps, heart pounding, telling myself I just need to walk fast and get back to familiar streets.

Then—movement.

A shadow shifts at the edge of my vision.

A man steps forward, his gait unsteady, the reek of alcohol clinging to him. His clothes hang loose, stained and tattered. The hair on my arms rises.

“You lost, sweetheart?” His voice is a low, rough growl.

My throat tightens. A cold wave of fear curls in my stomach.