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ONE

Freya

Mid September, 2017

If you could sit with her, the little girl you used to be, would you change her? Or watch her stir a cup of coffee in some quiet café, the steam curling around her face, tell her she doesn’t have to rush? Maybe you’d be late, if only to show that not everything needs to be on time. And then, when you finally did arrive, you’d fall to your knees beside her chair, take her small hands in yours, and whisper: Ten years from now, you will be fine. You don’t have to figure everything out today.

No matter what happens, she shouldn’t hold on to the past.

You’d laugh as you tell her that if she cuts her hair short, it will grow back. Some people will leave, but the ones who truly matter will stay. When the world feels too heavy for a little girl, she shouldn’t shrink under the adult voices—she should run, climb trees, scrape her knees, and just be a kid.

I wish I could tell myself that. To never rush to grow up, to hold on to the things that make me me. To love my freckles, my ginger hair, no matter what others say.

Because being different isn’t something to shrink from; it’s something to stand in. But we live in the now, and the past has been a lesson we learned the hard way.

Twice I blinked, tilting my head to the right, gazing at the housebefore me. My hand shookunder the umbrella, which I held as close to my chest as I could, my fingers tightening around the handle. As if letting go would mean losing something more than just protection from the rain.

I bit on my lower lip and closed my eyes. A slashing gust of wind tore down the street, cutting through my skin and leaving a path of goosebumps from my feet up my arms. I really should have worn something warmer. A longer skirt. At least leggings. Perhaps.

Instead, my bare legs were left to the cold, covered only by short, wrinkled cotton socks with little black ribbons at the edges, tucked into platform loafers that did nothing but add height. Their thick rubber soles were useless against the chill.

The cold bit at my skin, turning it red. My freckles blurred in the damp air. My plaid brown blazer should have been enough, but the thin white shirt underneath clung to my skin, offering no warmth at all.

The house, with its black and gray stones, was just as unwelcoming as the wind stealing heat from my body. Two dark oak-framed windows stared back at me, reflecting nothing but the heavy gray Scottish sky. Inside, my grandmother was likely making chamomile tea, her answer to almost everything. But no tea in the world could settle the unease tightening in my chest. The rooftop tiles, slick and black from the rain, seemed darker than my thoughts today, as if even the house rejected the storm rolling through town.

And yet, the scent of rain and damp leaves beneath my loafers stirred something warmer in me. Autumn always did. I hated the clinging dampness, the way the raindrops clung to me like bad memories. But I loved the colors, the quiet, the way the season made me feel.

I stood frozen as if time had paused for me alone while the world rushed on. The street, the house, the rain. All of it was familiar. I had been here before. But this time, it wasn’t just a visit. This time, I had to stay.

I used to believe that living in a foreign country, where no one knew my name, would be easier. That anonymity would feel like freedom. It’s always simpler when no one expects anything from you. When you don’t have to pretend.

But now, I understand something else. People don’t need to know you to decide who you are. If they want a story, they will find a way to write one.

And somehow, mine never seemed to belong to me.

I took a deep breath, the air cold and burning in my lungs, and slowly breathedout, watching my breath dissipate into the rain.I stepped onto the first stair.

Another breath.

Before I knew it, I was standing at the door, foldingmy umbrella and propping it against the stone wall. My hand hovered in midair.

I didn’t need to knock—this was my home now. But I wanted to. Because if I knocked and no one answered, maybe I could turn around. Perhaps I could return to New York.

I was soaked, the rain gliding downmy face, through my clothes, freezing me from the inside out. There was nothing between me and the drops. And yet, I knocked.

Once. Twice. Three times.

That was all it took.

I could hear her footsteps across the wooden floor. I prayed she wouldn’t answer. That I could slip away, leave like I had never been here.

But the door swung open hard, the knob slamming against the wall. She didn’t hesitate.

She just pulled me inside and held me tight.

Her hair was always twisted into a perfect bun, and she almost always wore white, gold teardrop earrings forever fixedin her ears. But today, tendrils of hair had escaped, wisps framing her face in a softtangle. No earrings. No makeup. No careful mask to hide whatever had happened before I arrived.

Something was wrong.

I knew it. Felt it. But I was too selfish to ask.

Instead, I pulled off my blazer, hungit on the coat rack, and went into the living room. The faint aromaof chamomile tea did not leave, but the cup stood untouched and too cold to drink anyway. Grandma’s eyes followed me.

She didn’t speak.

But her blue eyes whispered everything.

She had been crying.

I turned, the words forming on my tongue—I’m here, you don’t have to cry—but a voice behind me said my name before I could speak.

“Freya.”

Dean Sinclaire. My mother’s lucky husband number four, and my stepfather.

I didn’t hate him, but I didn’t love him either. He wasn’t my dad, just the man who made my mother smile. So I smiled back, pretending I was happy to see him.

“Dean, what a surprise.”

“I’m here to talk to Cordelia. She never called me back,” he said, cracking his knuckles as he moved toward the wall. His eyes roamed the room, looking everywhere except at me.

“Too late,” I said, stepping further inside. “She left.”

His lips parted slightly, hesitation flickering across his face. “Do you know where... when she is coming back?”

“Don’t know.” I clicked my tongue, forcing a wide, fake smile across my face. “Don’t care.”

“Very well.” He finally turned, locking eyes with me. “Let me know if you hear anything.”

There it was. That look.

His hands curled into fists, knuckles pressing against the fabric of his gray suit pants. Always in a suit, always hiding behind it. I never really knew him—only knew that beneath the perfectly combed, gelled black hair, behind the mustache and those brown eyes…

Something else was there.

Someone else.

“Okay.” I clasped my hands behind my back, hangingonto the promise to be silent.

“All right, Freya, I’ll catch you soon,” he said,turning to walk away.

When he passed under the archedentryway, my grandmother, who had been holding back quietly in the corner, slipped into step beside him. She leaned forward and murmured somethingtoo quiet for me to hear.

Iraised my hand, wiggling my fingers in the air.

B-bye.

The door closed behind him,and a shiver passed through me. The cold air in the house pawed at my skin. I knew it was time to change my clothes.

My gaze fell to the floor, down to my wet black loafers and the beige carpet they lay on. Dark brown stains bledinto the fabric around the edge.

Shit .

Grandma’s house looked like one of those interior design magazines. Paired with her obsessive need for order, it barely felt like anyone lived here. The living room had a fireplace made of dark brown bricks. I’d never seen it lit, but three wooden logs sat inside, just in case someone ever decided to.

In the corner, a white piano stood untouched, its keys never played, not even once. Against the far wall sat a beige sofa, big enough for four, yet somehow, we rarely used it. Framed pictures of people I didn’t know, buildings I hadn’t been in linedthe white walls. To the left was a wide window, looking out at the maple trees outside, with red and amber leaves falling to theground.

I could hear her steps.

“Dean left,” Grandma announced, entering with arms crossed over her chest. A smirk was on her lips. “You know, he’s afraid of you.” Her thick British accent curled itself around the f in afraid, drawing it out like a secret.

“He should be,” I chuckled, my gaze straying to the dirty carpet.

“Freya, darling, are you worried?” She stepped closer, her tone softer now. Her gaze moved to the stain, narrowing slightly, but she didn’t say a word.

“A little,” I admitted. “She always lets me know when she’ll be back. This time, she didn’t.”

I moved, stepping clumsily over the puddle of the stain, and Grandma, as her hands landed lightly on my elbows and shoved meaway. The moment her eyes landed on the dark brown splotch, she took a sharp breath andpinched the bridge of her nose.

“Please don’t be,”she said, massaging her temples. “She’ll be back soon. You’ll see.”

“Sorry,” I said, pursing mylips. So, when I looked up ather, I put on my saddest puppy face.

She dismissively waved a hand. “Barely noticeable,” she said, her laugh a bit nervous.

I knew better. I knew better. Her OCD wouldn’t let her leave it alone. As soon as I left her line of sight, she’d drop down on her hands and knees,scrubbing and scrubbing, until the stain was gone or the carpet was no longer beige but something much closer to pure white.

“I’m going to change,” I told her, leaning in for a quickpeck on the cheek.

As I was about to turn andleave, her fingers wrapped softly around my wrist. “Darling?”

Her tone was gentler now, hergaze probing my own as she said what both of us needed to hear. “Things sometimes have to get worse before theyget better.”

“I know,” I said, smiling a small, sadsmile as her hand fell. Then I turned, heading for the hallway.

The stairs were in the center of the house, in the hallway, twisting up tothe second floor with the bedrooms. My own had always been the second door on the right, with a view up over theentrance and the maple trees outside. It was the same. But coming in here now, itwas different, as if time had stretched and warped its edges.

If I counted the days, I’d realize I’d lived more of my life in this room than in any room in New York. And yet I still couldn’t call it mine.

My suitcases remained untouched at the foot of the bed, a wordless no I said to myself. As if leaving them packed meant I could simply walk out at any moment. But I wasn’t going anywhere.

I was halfway up the stairswhen a loud knock came. Thenoise rattled the walls of the house. I hesitated, hand clenching on the railing, but Grandma was already moving forward.

“I’ll get it, darling. Go change,” she called over her shoulder.

The door creaked open.

No one was there.

A jar of dread rippled through me, and I leaned closer to what was there. A black envelope lay on the front step, gold letters sparkling as she picked it up.Grandma stiffened. Her face went pale. And with one swoop, she shoved it into her pocket.

“Go change, darling,” she said again, this time nervously. “You’ll catch a cold.”

“Yeah,” I said finally, forcing a smile. “I will.”

Secrets had built the walls of my life. They held up the foundation and filled in the spaces between every promise my family made. And today was no different.

I had to know. Everyfamily built on pain would never know love, and all I ever wanted was love. What I got was broken promises and secrets I never knew.

I promised myself I would one day .

FREYA – 6 years old

Dad came home angry from work. I could smell the stink of cigarettes and alcohol clinging to him. I knew when he was like this, I had to hide. But this time, I was too late—so Mommy hid me in the kitchen cabinet under the sink.

Usually, I could curl up inside and close the door completely, but today, I had grown too big. My body pressed against the bottles of detergent, the sharp smell that made my nose burn.

“Freya, baby, it’s time,” she whispered to me. “Be quiet, just like my foxy fox.”

“Okay, Mommy.”

We played this game— no hear, no see. I pressed my palms hard against my ears and shut my eyes so tightly that tiny specks of light flickered behind my eyelids. I called them fairies.

But today, I was too close.

I could still hear Dad shouting at Mommy, even with my hands over my ears, even with my eyes closed.

“Oliver saw you with that guy again!”

Then, a slap. Loud. Followed by the sharp crack of a wooden chair breaking.

I opened my eyes. Through the small gap in the cabinet door, I saw Mommy on the floor. He had her by the hair, lifting her head. She screamed. She couldn’t take the pain.

His fist came down again. Hard.

I can see blood on Mommy.

Myhands shook, and my heart pounded. I held my mouth with my hands and struggled not to scream, butI could not hide the tears on my face.

Another thud. Louder this time.

More moans.

I turned my head to the side and squeezed my eyes closed again.

Fairies, I want to see the fairies again.

But all I saw was blood. All I heard were her cries. And all I felt was pain.

One day, when I grow up, I will never love a man. I will never be a mom.

I hope I never have to hide.