She stayed on that bench long after the chill began to seep through her clothes. The park had begun to fill—a woman jogged past with her dog, two elderly men argued over chess under the shade of a half-bloomed tree, and a group of schoolchildren were laughing, chasing bubbles that a street performer blew into the wind.
But Ella sat still, unmoving, like if she waited long enough, the ache would lessen.
It didn't.
Because that ache wasn't new. It wasn't about James showing up after all these years—it was the ache of survival. Of being abandoned and growing around that hollow space, like a tree twisting around rot.
She knew what Nicholas would say if he saw her like this. He wouldn't tell her to be strong. He wouldn't tell her to forget. He'd sit beside her in silence, take her hand, and let her be messy. Let her be human.
And God, how badly she wanted that now.
Ella wiped at her cheeks—surprised to find them damp. She hadn't even realized she was crying.
Her phone buzzed.
