Page 19

SWEET SORROWS

Isolde, One Year Later

The snow falling in drifts outside clings to my hair as I open the door to the best café in town, the door dinging with my entrance. The sun is just making its appearance on the morning after a pitch-black night, with a brutal cold that made me huddle closer to the fireplace.

“Good morning!” the older lady behind the counter chirps, her golden smile reaching her brown eyes as she notices me entering. “Oh, Isa! Do you want your usual?”

I offer her a small smile, nodding absent-mindedly, still hovering in that in-between space of being asleep and awake. It’s too early at seven in the morning, but I have an early client I need to get to. This is my usual morning routine in the new town I’ve moved to.

Janet is already moving behind the coffee machine with her usual practiced ease. The café’s light catches the rich tone of her dark skin as she works, and her curls bounce with each familiar step behind the counter.

“Cold day outside, isn’t it?” she asks with a soft smile, noticing the snowflakes tangled in my hair.

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a winter as brutal as the one here.”

“That’s just us. You’ll get used to it,” she says with a knowing gaze.

Janet’s been running this café long before I moved to Silver Creek a year ago.

She’s the kind of woman who remembers your face, your name, and your usual order.

Someone who genuinely cares for everyone who walks through that door.

She took me under her wing the day I first came here, lost and unsure after leaving my old life behind.

The thought of that leaves a twinge in my stomach, but I ignore it.

Sliding a drink that smells as amazing as ever, Janet gives me a wink. “There you go, honey. Made it extra strong today. You look like you need it. Enjoy your drink.”

This is why I love her. “Thank you.”

I grab the coffee in one hand, grasping my computer in the other, as I turn around to the otherwise deserted café. No one is up at this time, but it always gets busy at lunchtime.

The deep aromas of the drink filter through my nostrils, bringing me back to the present and heating my already cold body. My fingers flex around the mug, savoring the warmth. There’s a kind of nostalgia in the scent as it fills the small café. Comforting and familiar. A balm to my broken soul.

Settling down in my usual spot by the fogged-up window, I set up my computer and enter the meeting.

I’m still able to make a living by doing tarot card readings online.

This spot is the perfect one. At the back of the café, there’s no one around me to sneak a peek at my screen, and it allows me to have an overview of the rest of the space, along with the street outside.

After every horrible thing I’ve endured, I’ve become more paranoid. Always needing full control of my surroundings, or it feels as if I will suffocate.

The town shuffles awake with people getting ready for work. A young boy swishes past on his bike, handing out the morning newspaper while not really handing them out. More like throwing them at people’s doorsteps. But no one cares.

There’s familiarity in his movements, and there’s a sense of comfort in the way everyone always expects him to do it. They know to move away from him now.

A man with a dog walks by, and I smile as another woman comes up to greet the dog.

It’s peaceful here. Serene.

A sense of belonging, while still being an outcast. I enjoy people-watching, getting to know people before they’ve even met me. I’ve even grown to love this town. No one knows who I am or my haunted past. I think if they did, they wouldn’t be as welcoming.

That’s not to say I don’t miss Vexglade, because I do.

It’s a deep-rooted longing aching in my soul, a calling wanting to take me home despite all the trauma I endured there.

Even if horrible things happened between the borders of the morbid town, it’s still my home.

Always will be, no matter where in the world I venture.

But I did what I had to do to survive, and that included leaving.

I even filed for a restraining order the moment I left, made sure they couldn’t reach me again. Ever. It wasn’t easy, and it still isn’t. But I survived. In Silver Creek, I’ve finally found myself. Started therapy. Become self-independent. Stronger. More self-assured.

And yet…there are still days when I miss them. With an ache tugging at my throat like the need to vomit. Nights when I wake up from nightmares where they’re no longer with me, only to wake up and realize that that’s my reality.

They were my second half before I sent them to prison, and there’s a part of my heart that will always belong to them. But they taught me how dangerous love can become.

How obsession can fuel someone into vengeance.

And I can’t give my heart to someone when I’m still trying to stitch together the broken pieces of it.

Now? I think I miss them more than ever. The thrill. The chase. The feeling of being wanted so fiercely.

I don’t wish to go back in time. I did what I needed to do for my own survival. I needed to move on. But a part of me wants them back.

Some scars, you just have to learn to live with. No matter how much it hurts.

—————

THE MOMENT I ENTER my apartment after my meeting with my clients, it’s already pitch dark outside.

After helping out Janet with closing the café to occupy my thoughts from the reality that it’s exactly one year since I left them, I’m tired and ready to take a bath with a glass of wine in one hand and a movie playing in the background.

My keys jingle as I close the door behind me, breathing out a heavy sigh of relief.

It’s quickly replaced by an atmosphere of something being distant—off.

The faint scent of a feminine perfume, strawberry-like and sweet as honey, filters through the hallway and leaves a shiver wracking over me. That odor wasn’t there before I left earlier.

Swallowing the lump growing in my throat, I quietly lock the door behind me, gripping the keys tighter in my hands. If things come to it, they’ll have to be a makeshift weapon.

With tentative steps, I tiptoe my way through the corridor separating the living room from the kitchen.

Everything is as normal, the black sofa—bought second-hand when I moved here—stands as neatly with the cushions as I left them.

A coffee cup from yesterday stands on the glass table before the sofa.

Glancing over at one of my cardigans hanging from the armrest, I’m about to brush it off and move on when I realize it’s been nudged.

Only a fraction of an inch, but it moved nonetheless.

Suspicion makes panic crawl from the roots of my soul, the gut feeling of something being even more wrong fills me. I venture deeper into the apartment, careful not to make a sound.

This apartment is larger than my last one, with its own hallway, a separate space for the living room, and a separate bedroom that’s on the furthest end of the apartment with a balcony.

When I left Vexglade a year ago, I only stopped to get my personal belongings, leaving everything else behind. I terminated the contract with the landlord and stayed at a hotel until I found an apartment I could rent in Silver Creek.

Nothing is amiss in the kitchen, but that scent of perfume is even stronger here. Lingering in every corner, on every furniture.

Entering my bedroom, I’m certain it’s only my paranoid mind making things up when I can’t see anything else amiss, my head too exhausted to function properly.

That is until a wind washes over me, bringing in a coldness that makes me tremble.

The balcony door stands open, the curtains fluttering in the breeze.

Hurrying toward the balcony—located on the first floor but concealed by the tall thuja bushes to block any view—I’m startled to find a letter on the armchair.

Someone has brushed away the snow, leaving just enough space for it to rest undisturbed.

In that split second before reaching the letter, the warm blood flowing in my veins turns into ice. Irreparable and scared, fearing for my fate. It soon feels as if my body has been electrified, anticipation thrumming through me in a way completely tangible.

Struggling to calm my heart, any and all rational senses vanish within me. Excitement rushes through me, sharp and jittery as if a fuse has been lit.

It reeks of the strawberry-honey scent. One so familiar, it sends a tug of heartache through me with the need to suddenly shed tears.

There’s no doubt who it’s from.

The crumbled male handwriting—so rough yet somehow elegant because it defines him —causes feathers to ruffle in my stomach as I read the words.

Reluctantly. I should call the police, telling them I fear for my life and that they’re back, asking the police to come get me.

Take them away again, for good. But I don’t know if it’s truly them, and that would’ve been embarrassing.

Who am I kidding? I know it’s them.

Happy Birthday

Just those two short words. But they say more than a thousand words could—telling tales of gutwrenching agony in the slight tilt, of warm well-wishing in the elegance of their script.

As if an unseen ghost of memory has passed through me, a swift commotion stirs behind the thujas. Two silhouettes, not hiding but standing proud in the fading light, almost swallowed by the descending flakes.

And instead of a deep-rooted fear urging me to run the other way, a longing ache of despair settles inside me. Twisting and turning, winding its way through my heart with the weight of desiderium— a fierce desire and yearning.

Despite all, they found me.