It was, after all, the eve of a nation's celebration—the kind of night when every street should hum with laughter, when every home should glow like a lantern in the dark.
But Skylark felt hollow.
On this night of firecrackers and family reunions, the city had emptied itself like a body stripped of its soul. Shops shuttered. Cafés darkened. Even the online services Natalie had tried to reach seemed to have folded into silence, as if the entire world had curled up to sleep in the warmth of its own hearth.
She sat curled on her sofa, phone in hand, the chill gnawing at her bones. The old apartment had never been generous with heat, and now—with the heater dead—it felt like winter had seeped into the walls, into her skin, into the marrow of her solitude.
She had called every repair service she could find. Each answer was the same: Sorry, we're closed for the holiday.
The words clanged in her ears like a lock turning.
Natalie hugged herself tighter, her fingers tracing idle circles on the phone screen. She was about to dial yet another number—one more futile attempt—when the screen lit up with an incoming voice call.
Sabrina Myers.
The name struck her like a pebble tossed into still water, sending ripples through the quiet of her chest.
The call ended before she could react—then rang again. This time, she answered.
"Hello?" Her voice was soft, uncertain.
"You're in Skylark?" Sabrina's tone was direct, stripped of preamble.
Not brusque. Just… clean. Like a blade honed to clarity. Her voice carried a kind of calm brightness, the kind that slipped under Natalie's skin and stayed there.
"Yes," Natalie murmured, curling deeper into the corner of the couch.
"And your heater's broken?"
Natalie blinked. "How do you know that? Did Oakley tell you?"
She had exchanged greetings with many tonight, but only Oakley had lingered long enough for a real conversation.
"Mm." Sabrina's voice was lazy, almost amused. "It came up. So—I thought I'd check. Any luck finding someone to fix it?"
Natalie glanced around the dim room, her lips curving in a wry smile. "No. Everyone's gone home for the holiday."
Her luck, she thought, was a brittle thing. But she didn't feel bitter—not anymore. Life had taught her to stop expecting sweetness.
Good things didn't thrill her now; bad things didn't break her. She had become like a frozen lake at midnight—smooth, silent, unyielding. Even if a leaf fell, the surface would not ripple.
"And you?" Sabrina asked after a pause. "Why didn't you go home?"
Natalie's gaze drifted to the faint pattern on the sofa fabric, until the lines blurred. She smiled faintly. "Because there's nothing worth going back to."
She didn't elaborate. Her family was a story she no longer told—a tangle of disappointments that sounded too much like complaint, too much like weakness. She had outgrown the urge to spill her hurt into other people's hands.
Sabrina was quiet for a beat. Then: "No friends to spend the night with?"
Natalie shook her head, though Sabrina couldn't see it. "Not really. I haven't been here long. The only people I know well are Oakley—and the woman who runs the kids' boutique next door. Both went home."
Another pause. Then Sabrina's voice, low and even: "Doesn't it feel lonely?"
Natalie laughed softly. "I guess I'm used to it."
Her words hung in the air like frost.
Used to it. Sabrina heard what Natalie didn't say—that once, she hadn't been. That once, she had dreamed of warmth, of laughter braided through nights like this.
Natalie had wanted what every girl wants: someone to share the glow of holidays, someone to make the ordinary shimmer. She had pictured it—those tender, golden scenes—and smiled at the thought.
But life had taught her otherwise. She wasn't allowed to dream. Wasn't allowed to be fragile.
The moment she leaned, the world shoved her back. So she learned to stand alone. Learned that independence was the only shield against chaos.
If she stayed strong, life would be kind—or at least, not cruel.
If she faltered, if she reached for someone, fate would strike like a hammer, splintering everything she held.
She had fought that truth once. Tried to rewrite it. Failed.
Now, she walked the path fate had carved, telling herself it was choice.
Sabrina's voice broke the silence, softer now: "What about dinner? What did you eat?"
Natalie hesitated, then gave a small laugh. "Honestly? I slept most of the day. When I woke up, I wasn't hungry. Made some tea… and a phone case."
The process had been clumsy, her fingers stiff from inexperience. But it had filled the hours, kept the quiet from pressing too hard.
"So you didn't have a proper meal?" Sabrina cut in, her tone sharper than before.
Natalie blinked, thrown.
"Well… I had an orange," she said lightly. "And a cookie."
The sigh that drifted through the line was almost inaudible—but Natalie felt it, like a hand brushing her cheek.
An orange and a cookie. Sabrina pictured it, and something in her chest tightened.
"And now?" she asked. "Still not hungry?"
Natalie touched her stomach, reluctant. "Maybe a little. I was thinking of making noodles later."
"Make two bowls," Sabrina said after a pause. Her voice was calm, but there was a thread beneath it—something that tugged. "I'm hungry too."
Natalie froze. "You mean…?"
"I mean make two bowls," Sabrina repeated, her tone steady. "I'll eat with you."
Natalie's breath caught. "You're saying—you're coming over?"
She hadn't expected that. Not tonight. Not like this.
"Mm." A soft laugh curled through the receiver. "What's wrong? Don't want me to keep you company?"
"No, it's just…" Natalie glanced at the clock. "It's late."
Most people would be winding down now, folding themselves into bed—even if sleep came slow with fireworks cracking outside.
Sabrina's reply was simple, almost weightless: "Because I'm lonely."
The words landed like a pebble in Natalie's chest, sending ripples she couldn't still.
"I…" Her throat tightened.
She had always been the one who circled, who softened her edges, who avoided the straight lines of truth. And now here was Sabrina—direct, unflinching—splintering her quiet with a single sentence.
Natalie's thoughts scattered. Her pulse thudded like a drum. She didn't even notice how tightly her legs had curled beneath her, how her fingers clenched the phone as if it were a lifeline.
"Didn't you say I'm your friend?" Sabrina's voice slid through the silence, smooth as silk. "What kind of friend refuses to share a holiday?"
The words struck something deep—something Natalie had buried under layers of ice.
She should have said no. Should have found an excuse, a polite deflection. But her mouth betrayed her before her mind could catch up.
"I didn't say no," she whispered. "I just… thought it's late."
She was about to explain, to soften the edges—but the line went dead.
And then—three sharp knocks split the quiet.
Natalie jolted, her body arching like a startled cat. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"Who is it?" she called, voice taut.
The city wasn't without its shadows. Stories of midnight horrors had a way of clinging to memory.
A pause. Then a voice—low, clear, unmistakable:
"Me."
Sabrina.
Natalie's breath loosened, though her pulse still raced. She slid her feet into slippers and padded to the door, each step cautious, her fingers grazing the wall for steadiness.
The door swung open.
And there she was.
Sabrina stood framed in the doorway, the night wind curling around her like smoke. Dressed in black, she carried the chill of winter on her skin, yet her presence burned—quiet, arresting.
Her face was bare, untouched by makeup, but her beauty was sharp enough to cut the dark.
Natalie's hand tightened on the doorframe.
"You—how did you know my address?" Her voice was a whisper, frayed at the edges.
Sabrina's lips curved, a flicker of amusement ghosting her features.
"Once, at your shop—I saw a form on your desk. Your address was on it. I glanced."
Natalie stared. "You remembered… from one glance?"
Sabrina shrugged lightly. "I have a good memory. Don't worry—I'm not a creep. Just… wired that way."
"I know," Natalie said softly. She had never thought Sabrina was anything but extraordinary. Brilliant. Uncompromising.
Silence stretched, humming like a live wire.
Then Sabrina stepped forward.
The hallway light spilled over her shoulders, casting shadows that curled like smoke around Natalie's feet. The air thickened, charged with something unnamed.
Natalie's breath hitched as Sabrina's eyes caught hers—dark, luminous, steady.
And then, her voice—low, edged with a smile:
"What's wrong? Won't you let me in?"