Eight Months Earlier
The zipper of my suitcase snagged halfway closed.
I tugged harder, forcing it shut while pretending not to notice my mother standing silently by the doorway.
The house smelled faintly of boiled rice and detergent, the scent soaked into the thin curtains hanging over the kitchen entrance.
Somewhere outside, a dog barked endlessly down the street while old pipes rattled inside the walls like they were exhausted too.
“Liora,” my mother said softly, “you don’t have to do this.”
I kept my eyes on the suitcase.
If I looked at her for too long, I might stay.
And staying was dangerous.
Staying meant watching overdue bills pile higher on the table every week.
It meant hearing my father grow quieter and colder every month, and money became tighter.
It meant pretending I didn’t notice how often my mother skipped meals so Noah and Clara could eat more.
“We’ll manage,” she tried again.
I finally looked up.
My mother stood with her arms folded tightly across herself, her expression tired in that familiar way life had carved into her over the years.
Behind her, Clara sniffled quietly while Noah leaned against the wall, pretending not to look emotional.
Neither of them was very good at pretending.
“You said that last month,” I said gently.
Her face fell.
Guilt stabbed through me immediately.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yes, you did.”
The sad thing was she wasn’t even angry.
Just defeated.
Clara suddenly rushed forward first, wrapping her arms tightly around my waist.
“Don’t go,” she whispered.
God.
That almost ruined me.
At thirteen, Clara still spoke with her whole heart like the world hadn’t taught her caution yet.
Her curls were messy from sleep, and she held onto me like I was leaving forever instead of moving across the city.
Noah walked over more slowly.
At fifteen, he’d recently entered that stage where he thought emotions should be hidden behind shrugs and awkward silences.
Still, his eyes looked suspiciously red.
“You can still change your mind,” he muttered.
I smiled faintly.
“There’s barely enough space for the three of you here already.”
“And Dad,” Clara added quietly.
A silence followed.
Not hostile.
Just heavy.
My father hadn’t been home much lately.
And when he was, stress followed him through the door like another person entirely.
I bent slightly to hold Clara’s face.
“I’m not disappearing,” I told her.
“Tessa’s apartment is closer to St.
Aureline.
I’ll save transport money, I’ll work more hours, and maybe for once I won’t nearly miss lectures every morning.”
“That place is tiny,” Noah said.
“Exactly.
Tiny means affordable.”
“It’s free,” Clara corrected.
I pointed at her dramatically.
“Which is my favourite kind of affordable?”
That finally earned a small laugh from both of them.
My mother shook her head softly, smiling despite herself.
“You always joke when things get difficult.”
“If I don’t laugh, I’ll start screaming.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It’s honest.”
The room fell quiet again.
Then my mother crossed the distance between us and pulled me into her arms.
And suddenly I felt five years old again.
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” she whispered into my hair.
“I will.”
“Promise you’ll come home once in a while.”
“I will.”
“Promise you won’t carry everything alone.”
That promise…
I couldn’t make it.
So instead, I hugged her tighter.
After a moment, Noah joined awkwardly, followed immediately by Clara, nearly crushing all of us together beside my half-broken suitcase.
I laughed through the sting building behind my eyes.
“Okay,” I mumbled.
“Okay, I’m starting to feel kidnapped.”
“You’re dramatic,” Noah muttered against my shoulder.
“Runs in the family.”
When the hug finally broke apart, I picked up my suitcase and moved toward the door.
Before leaving, I paused.
“Say hi to Dad for me when he gets back.”
My mother nodded quietly.
Something in her eyes made my chest ache.
Then I stepped outside before I could change my mind.
Tessa’s apartment sat above a convenience store near the edge of Windhoek’s busier district, where music drifted endlessly through open windows and traffic never fully slept.
The building itself looked old enough to collapse during strong emotional conversations.
Still, when Tessa opened the door with a grin stretching across her face, warmth immediately spilt out into the hallway behind her.
“There she is,” she announced dramatically.
“The academic weapon herself.”
I laughed tiredly as she grabbed one side of my suitcase.
“Careful.
Academic weapons still break under financial pressure.”
“Good thing this apartment survives entirely on vibes.”
“That explains the staircase.”
“The staircase has character.”
“The staircase tried to murder me.”
Tessa snorted before dragging me inside.
The apartment was small, but bright in a way that made it feel larger than it actually was.
Warm sunlight spilt through wide windows dressed in cream curtains while potted plants crowded nearly every available surface like tiny green roommates.
A soft brown sofa sat against the wall beneath shelves overflowing with books, candles, folded laundry, and framed photographs.
A narrow kitchenette occupied one corner of the room, painted pale yellow with mismatched mugs hanging beneath the cabinets.
It wasn’t luxurious.
But it felt alive.
Comfortable.
Safe.
My shoulders loosened slightly for the first time all day.
Tessa kicked the door shut behind us.
“So,” she said carefully, “how bad was the goodbye?”
I dropped onto the sofa heavily.
“Clara cried.”
“Oof.”
“Then my mother cried.”
“Double oof.”
“I almost cried.”
Tessa gasped theatrically.
“Liora Bennett?
Showing human emotion?
Historic.”
I rolled my eyes before turning toward her properly.
“Seriously though… thank you for letting me stay here, Tess.”
Her expression softened immediately.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That thing where you sound guilty for existing.”
I looked away quietly.
Tessa walked over and dropped beside me onto the sofa.
“You’re my friend,” she said simply.
“You needed somewhere to stay.
End of discussion.”
Something warm pressed painfully against my ribs.
I smiled faintly.
“Still,” I murmured, “thank you.”
By evening, I was tying my apron strings behind the counter of Café Ellure.
The café sat along a lively street lined with glowing storefronts and passing headlights.
Most evenings smelled of coffee beans, pastries, perfume, and rain trapped somewhere in the air.
I liked it here.
The work was exhausting, but predictable.
Predictable felt safe.
“Table six keeps asking if you’re single,” my coworker Amira announced while sliding beside me with a tray balanced on one hand.
I deadpanned.
“Table six is sixty.”
“Love knows no age.”
“Prison does.”
Amira burst into laughter.
I shook my head, grabbing a cloth to wipe one of the empty tables near the front glass wall.
Outside, the city glowed beneath the deepening evening sky.
Cars rolled past slowly while streetlights flickered gold against wet pavement.
Then I noticed him.
At first, it was only the feeling.
That strange awareness was crawling slowly up the back of my neck.
I looked up fully.
A man stood across the street beside a sleek black car.
Watching me.
Not casually.
Directly.
My hand slowed against the table.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Dark tailored coat.
One hand rested inside his pocket while the other hung loosely by his side.
Even from a distance, there was something unnervingly composed about him.
Controlled.
Like every movement had already been calculated before it happened.
The city lights caught briefly against sharp features carved with quiet precision.
Dark hair brushed neatly away from his forehead, touched faintly with silver near the temples that only made him look more expensive somehow.
Late thirties perhaps.
Maybe older.
His face carried the kind of attractiveness that didn’t beg for attention but commanded it anyway.
Cold dark eyes.
Straight nose.
Strong jawline.
The sort of man who looked like he belonged inside private meetings where lives were rearranged with signatures.
Behind him, the black car gleamed beneath the streetlights like polished obsidian.
Luxury without effort.
Danger without announcement.
A strange chill slid through me.
I turned slightly, pretending to check behind me.
No one else stood near the windows.
No one else could be staring at.
When I looked back toward the street… he was still watching me.