Cameron walked through a soft, golden haze. The air carried faint violin notes,
delicate and lingering, weaving around her as if leading the way.
She found herself in a sunlit kitchen where Emilia laughed, flour dusting her cheek,
and Reis's hand lightly held hers as they stumbled through a clumsy dance. The light
shifted, and autumn leaves spiralled around them, hand in hand beneath a canopy of
amber.
A concert hall appeared: Emilia on stage, bow gliding across strings, her music both
commanding and tender, filling the space with warmth that went beyond sound.
Moments flickered like watercolour—fragile, fleeting, yet vivid. Cameron moved
through them, drawn into the quiet rhythm of love, the subtle gestures, the music that
had shaped their lives.
When the golden glow thinned, the echo of Emilia's music lingered, soft and
insistent, as if inviting her to capture it.
Cameron's eyes fluttered open, the golden haze fading from her mind. For a
moment, she tried to hold onto it—Emilia's laughter, the autumn leaves, the soft
violin notes—but then she realized it had been a dream. Sunday noon sunlight
streamed through the window. She was late.
She lingered only a second, letting the memory of the dream settle like a warm
weight, before springing into action. Toast browned in the pan, eggs sizzled, coffee
brewed, all while the echoes of violin strings and tender gestures clung to her
thoughts.
Even as she ate hurriedly, she let herself savour the recollections—tiny, fleeting
threads of life and love, delicate enough to sketch into her illustrations later.
Cameron sat at her desk, sketchbook open, trying to capture the golden haze from
her dream. Emilia's laughter, the autumn leaves, the soft violin notes—she traced
them in graphite, then tried watercolour, gouache, and digital brushes.
Nothing clicked. Colours clashed, lines fell flat, and the light she remembered
refused to appear. She switched between mediums, experimenting, but each attempt
felt like a shadow of a life lived in warmth and motion, not stillness on a page.
Leaning back, she stared at the scattered sketches. Something was missing—the
spark, the essence, the rhythm of Emilia's music.
Hours passed unnoticed. Pencil stubs and paint-streaked rags littered the desk.
When she glanced at the clock, it was seven p.m. already. Cameron rubbed her
eyes, exhaling, realizing the day had vanished chasing a light that remained elusive.
Cameron sat back, rubbing her eyes, letting her thoughts drift between sketches and
the lingering memory of Emilia. A soft chime pulled her from the haze—the doorbell.
She opened it to find Corey, holding a bag of groceries. "Thought you might need
these," he said lightly, stepping inside.
Cameron blinked, surprised, as he set the bags on the counter. He moved with ease,
unpacking vegetables, bread, and other essentials while chatting casually. "Crazy
night at work last shift," he mentioned, tossing a playful glance her way. "Didn't think
we'd both be so wiped today."
Before long, he had a pot on the stove, chopping, stirring, and seasoning with
practiced care. Cameron watched, almost dazed, as the kitchen filled with the
comforting aroma of simmering ingredients.
He glanced at her once, faintly smiling. "Go rest for a moment. I've got dinner," he
said, intuitive and calm, sensing the tension in her shoulders. Cameron sank onto a
chair, letting the quiet efficiency of his presence fill the room.
Cameron watched the pot simmering and the cutting board scattered with
vegetables. "Alright, I guess I can't just sit here pretending to be useful," she said,
rolling up her sleeves.
Corey raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at his lips. "Finally! I was starting to think
you'd just supervise me all night."
She grabbed a knife and started chopping alongside him, trying to match his rhythm.
"Hey, careful with the onions," she teased, "or the kitchen's going to look like a crime
scene."
Corey laughed softly. "Noted. I'll take responsibility for the garlic then—you handle
the rest of the chaos."
Cameron glanced at him and smiled. "Thanks for dropping by like this… and, you
know, for checking in on me. It really means a lot."
He gave a faint shrug, still grinning. "All part of the service. Someone has to make
sure you survive beyond instant noodles."
They fell into an easy rhythm, chopping, stirring, and joking, the kitchen filling with
warmth and laughter. Cameron felt lighter, appreciating the quiet care in his
presence.
When they finally sat down, plates in front of them, Corey lifted his fork like a judge
delivering a verdict. "Impressive work, chef. Almost tastes professional."
Cameron shot him a look. "That's rich coming from someone who burned instant
soup"
"That pot betrayed me," he said solemnly. "Besides, it was an experimental recipe."
She laughed, shaking her head, and flicked a pea across the table at him. He
gasped dramatically. "A pea attack? Is this how you start a war?"
She smirked, shaking her head. "Lucky for you, I'm feeling merciful today."
He leaned back, grinning. "Alright alright, but you owe me dessert now."
Cameron rolled her eyes but couldn't stop her smile.Cameron never thrived around
people, yet Corey was the rare exception she was glad to have by her side.
Corey grabbed two bottles of beer from the fridge. "For dessert," he said with a grin,
popping the caps. They leaned back, sipping and laughing quietly, the kitchen now
warm with the glow of shared comfort.
Corey set his bottle down. "I'm stepping out for a smoke," he said, heading for the
balcony. Cameron followed, curiosity nudging her.
He offered her one of his cigarettes. "Want one?" he asked, cocky grin in place.
Cameron paused, then shrugged. "Why not?"
That caught him off guard—after all the years of her turning him down, this was a
first.
The first drag hit her throat like fire. She doubled over coughing, eyes streaming,
while Corey cackled like a hyena; he nearly dropped his own cigarette. "Wow.
Graceful," he said, smirking.
He leaned back, watching her struggle for breath, a grin tugging at his mouth. "Yeah,
nothing cooler than choking on your first drag.
She glared between coughs. "Shut up. I just… didn't expect it to taste like burnt dirt."
"That's because it is burnt dirt." He wiggled his eyebrows. "Takes years of practice to
look this cool doing it."
She snorted. "Cool? You look like a dad on break from mowing the lawn."
"Ouch," he said, clutching his chest in mock offense. "Low blow, Cam. You wound
me."
She bumped her shoulder against his. "Good. Maybe now you'll quit."
He smirked, holding the cigarette just out of reach. "Not a chance. Who else will
teach you all the fun ways to mess up?
Cameron waved him off, still coughing, but a laugh slipped out. "Typical… always full
of yourself."
The laughter faded as Cameron leaned against the railing, the smoke curling
between them.
Cole's usual cocky grin softened, replaced by quiet concern. "Hey,"
He said gently, "How are you holding up?"
Cameron's throat tightened. The anniversary of her mom's death was
approaching—a weight she couldn't shake. "It's… rough," she admitted, voice low.
"The days leading up to it feel heavier than usual."
She swallowed hard, staring at the city lights. "My mother… She was everything to me. It was ordinary, comfortable, the way life should be. And then, one day… it all changed. Just like that." Her voice trembled slightly, the words rough in her throat, like they had been waiting years to be spoken.
Corey stayed quiet, giving her space.
"The house always smelled like my mom's cooking. Even with so little time to spare, she was always trying out new recipes. She had this habit of humming while she worked in the kitchen. I used to find it distracting—always pulling me away from my studies. Now, I'd give anything to hear it again. But once she was gone, the silence was suffocating. No smells, no hums… just this lingering emptiness that never left me. I don't think it's ever really gone away."
Her hands gripped the railing, knuckles pale against the metal. The city spread out
below them, glittering, alive, while inside her chest, everything felt stuck in pause.
Finally, she turned her head, meeting Corey's eyes. He didn't speak, didn't offer
some empty reassurance. He just looked back at her, steady and unflinching, until the silence between them carried more weight than words ever could.
Corey shifted beside her, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, wordlessly, he stayed still, letting her lean her head on his shoulder. It was quiet, unobtrusive—a steady presence she could cling to without needing to say a word.
Cameron closed her eyes, the tension in her chest easing slightly. His presence pressed gently against her side, grounding her in the moment.
"You don't have to carry it all alone," he murmured, his voice low but certain.
For a moment, she allowed herself to relax. The city pulsed softly below, the night air brushing her skin, and he was there—steady, grounding—a quiet reminder that she wasn't truly alone.
When she finally straightened herself, her eyes were glassy, but her mouth tugged into the
smallest, genuine smile.