One year later
"Happy holidays, Rose."
"Happy holidays, Todd." I smiled, tugging my scarf tighter around my neck as I stepped onto the snowy sidewalk.
New York City, even in the dead of winter, pulsed with its own kind of magic. Streetlights shimmered through the delicate flurry of snowflakes. Carols echoed from open storefronts, and soft laughter floated from bundled families hurrying home. The city glowed like a memory held too long in the heart—warm despite the cold. It was Christmas Eve, and I was alone.
But I was content.
A year ago, I left everything behind. My name, my story, my pain. I remember the night clearly. I had stood outside that broken little house, overhearing the words that changed everything: She needs to be gone. What if what they're saying is true? That night shattered what little hope I had left. And so, I ran—not in fear, but in exhaustion.
I didn't run from my past; I ran toward a new future.
New York was not welcoming at first. I arrived with nothing—just a bag of clothes, a bit of cash, and a ring Ronald had once given me. He kissed me the first time under that winter moon and slid that ring onto my finger, whispering promises we were both too young to keep. It became my currency of survival. I pawned it for my first rent. He was a memory, one I had to sell.
And somehow, I started over.
Now I live in a small, clean apartment in Queens. It's modest—one bedroom, paper-thin walls, a leaky kitchen faucet—but it's mine. The first place I've ever felt safe. My job at the corner café pays just enough to keep the lights on and my stomach full. No one there knows my story, and no one asks. That's the beauty of the city: anonymity is its most generous gift.
Todd, a coworker and friend, had become something of a constant. He didn't look at me with suspicion or pity. He didn't ask about scars—visible or otherwise. He just let me be, which is something I hadn't known I needed.
And this Christmas, for the first time, I bought myself a gift.
After my shift, I walked home through the snow-covered streets, stopping to admire the window displays. Children pointed at toy trains and glittering ornaments, while couples clutched hands and whispered wishes into the cold air. I wasn't one of them—but I wasn't bitter either. I understood now that happiness was fragile, and sometimes, surviving was a celebration on its own.
Once home, I changed into a green sweater and a ridiculous red Christmas hat. I looked like a cartoon version of myself, but it made me laugh. The laugh caught in my throat when I glanced at the counter: the ingredients for Ronald's favorite cupcakes were waiting for me.
I hesitated.
Every Christmas, I'd made those cupcakes just for him. When we were together, it had been our secret ritual. But this year, he was a ghost, like so many others in my life.
Still, I baked.
An hour later, the smell of vanilla and cinnamon filled the room. I boxed up a few and stepped back into the night. Just down the block, curled against a brick wall, was the same homeless man who had appeared weeks ago. He never asked for anything, never spoke. But his eyes always softened when he saw me.
I walked to him, knelt down, and handed him a small box.
"Merry Christmas," I said quietly.
His chapped lips parted into a smile that nearly undid me. He reminded me of Ronald in ways that were impossible—too thin, eyes too sad, face too forgotten. I didn't wait for thanks. I simply turned and walked home.
Inside again, I lit a candle and placed the last cupcake on my windowsill. Not for me. Not for the man outside. For a memory. For someone who no longer existed.
Then, I prayed.
I prayed for my mother and father, wherever they were. I prayed for Jessie. I even prayed for Ronald. I hadn't let go of them entirely—I wasn't ready—but I had made peace with the pieces they left me.
I sat down alone at the table and took a bite. Sweet. Simple. Real.
Outside, the world sang. Laughter echoed. Joy vibrated through the city. But here, in this tiny corner of the universe, there was only silence.
And grief.
And quiet strength.
After washing up, I stepped into the bathroom, ready to change. The mirror greeted me like an old enemy. My reflection didn't lie. The girl staring back had grown harder, leaner, but there was light behind the exhaustion now.
Still, a crooked smile twisted my lips.
"Not mine," I whispered to the girl in the mirror. "Not anymore."
I turned away and collapsed onto the bed, pulling the thin blanket over myself. That's when the voices came—faint and cruel, like whispers from a nightmare I thought I'd left behind.
"I… Ronald."
"She is the one."
"Kill her."
"Witch."
"I saw her… with blood."
"Kill her… Kill her."
I curled into myself, fists clenched at my sides, willing them away. I wasn't there anymore. I wasn't her anymore.
But the past doesn't always need a key—it finds cracks in the walls and seeps in like cold air under a door.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I squeezed them shut. Even now, a year later, they still haunted me. Every lie. Every accusation. Every moment I had to prove I was human.
I was tired.
But I was still here.
Still standing.
Still breathing.
And that, on this silent, snow-kissed Christmas Eve, was its own kind of miracle.
Shit! My eyes flew open, jolted by the sharp sting of reality. Light spilled through the curtains, too harsh for the hour. My heart raced, my skin damp with sweat. Another nightmare. Always the same: suffocating darkness, voices whispering my name like a curse. My breath came in short, ragged bursts as I scanned the room. I was safe. This was my home. Not much, but it was mine. My body was trembling beneath the comforter, trembling from the ghosts that never left me alone—not even during sleep.
It was Christmas morning. My first real holiday in this new city. One year since I'd left everything behind. One year since I traded the ring Ronald gave me—the ring that once meant forever—for the cash to survive in a world where I had nothing. No family. No friends. No name that people smiled at.
I stepped into a hot shower and tried to scrub away the night. The warm water soothed the trembling, but the chill inside remained, an echo of years I would rather forget. Once dressed, I wrapped myself in a thick coat and stepped outside. A blanket of snow covered the streets, the fog swallowing the edges of buildings like a dream slowly fading into the past. I loved snow. I always had. Maybe because snow made everything beautiful. Clean. Even things that weren't.
For two hours, I walked. No destination, just me and the frost-covered sidewalks. My breath fogged in the air, boots crunching with each step. It was peaceful, until a sharp turn put me face-to-face with someone—literally.
"Shit! I'm truly sorry," I said, stumbling as we collided. Her bag had fallen, and her belongings scattered across the icy pavement.
"Sorry," she muttered, bending to retrieve her things. She wore a sleek, professional outfit—a tailored gray coat, black trousers, patent heels. A woman in business attire. On Christmas?
I bent to help her. Her phone, a high-end model, was lying face-down, screen cracked. Next to it was a tablet. Also broken. I winced. "I'm really sorry. It was my fault."
She gave me a weary, desperate glance. "No, I'm to blame. I was walking blindly. What a terrible day. My phone had my boss's entire schedule for the day. Meetings, notes. He's going to devour me."
She looked like she was about to cry. Guilt chewed at me. "I… If you remember the notes, I can help you recreate them."
She stared at me, long and hard. "You would do that?"
"If you want."
She smiled—genuinely. A soft, elegant curve of her lips. "You can, of course. Let me gather my things. Please hold this for me." She handed me her diary and cracked phone as she tucked away the rest.
We sat on a nearby bench, scribbling and typing. Her memory was sharp. She rattled off meetings, appointments, times, addresses. I typed it all into her tablet, now somewhat functional. Her boss sounded like a machine, relentless and exacting.
"You're a lifesaver," she said at last. "I like using my phone for everything. But today, paper and pen mattered more. You saved me. I'm Olivia." She extended a manicured hand, the diamond ring on her finger glinting in the snowy light.
"Rose," I replied. Her hand was soft, her shake firm. I didn't expect her to hold mine for long, but she did.
"Rose," she repeated, savoring it. She smiled again. "You're a natural. I have a strange question. My boss gave me a week to find a replacement for myself. I'm getting married next week. Would you consider taking my place?"
I blinked. "Wait, what?"
"Temporary. Just a week. Maybe more if you like it. It's demanding, yes, but he'll pay well. Car. Apartment. Salary."
I stepped back. "I already work."
"Where?"
"A coffee shop."
"Come on. This is a step up."
I hesitated. Could I really do it? I remembered the long hours watching my father work in his shop. His ledgers. His calculations. The calm confidence he carried when managing clients. I inherited that. Maybe I could handle it.
"Please. My boss is a nightmare. If I don't find someone good, he'll find a reason to fire me before I even walk down the aisle."
Her desperation was real. "I need time."
She nodded and handed me a black card, elegant with red embossed letters and a black rose emblem on the back. "If you decide yes, call the first number. Ignore the second. Just the first."
We said our goodbyes, and she disappeared into the street, leaving me frozen in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at the card.
R.P.
Those initials stirred something I didn't want to feel.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. I kept the card close, running my fingers over the rose. I didn't know why I couldn't stop thinking about it. Maybe it was the name. Maybe the feeling in my stomach. Dread? Anticipation? A whisper of the past trying to claw its way back.
When the sun set, I finally picked up my phone and dialed. It rang. I held my breath.
A male voice answered. Deep. Familiar. "H..."
"Hello?" My voice trembled.
Silence. Then, "Who are you?"
I froze.
"Your worst nightmare," the voice whispered.
My breath caught in my throat. I was suffocating. It couldn't be. That voice.
Then Olivia's voice broke through. "Hello? This is Olivia."
I gasped. Relief flooded my lungs.
"Hi... this is Rose."
"Oh, Rose! I was hoping you'd call. So, what's your decision?"
I swallowed. "Actually, I think I'd like to try."
"Excellent! I'll send someone to pick you up tomorrow at 9 a.m. Sharp. Be ready."
"Olivia... who answered earlier?"
"What do you mean?"
"There was a man. Before you."
"Oh, probably just a glitch. No one else uses this line."
Lie.
I knew that voice. I had lived with that voice in my dreams and nightmares. Ronald.
It couldn't be.
Could it?
I hung up and stared at the phone. What had I agreed to? Something shifted in me. Something that felt like fate taking another cruel turn. But it was too late now. The wheels were in motion.
And I was headed right back to where it all began.