Chapter 23— Small Steps
Lyra's POV
The sun is gentle today, spilling gold across the streets. It feels softer than I remember, like the city is trying to coax me back into life without saying it out loud.
Lola insists we walk to the market instead of driving. "It's good for you, Lyra," she says, tugging at my hand. "Fresh air, a little exercise… and maybe you'll see something nice."
I hum softly, letting her lead the way. My sketchbook is tucked under my arm, the pages still empty from the last few days. I haven't felt like drawing yet — haven't felt like doing anything but pretending I'm okay while my chest still aches.
The streets are familiar and foreign all at once. The baker waves, a neighbor calls out, a child on a bicycle nearly bumps into me, laughing as he swerves away. Normally, I would have smiled, said something playful. But today, I just nod. Small steps. That's all I can manage.
When we reach the market, the scents hit me — sweet mangoes, fried bananas, warm bread. Lola drags me to a small stall selling old books, the kind with soft, faded covers and pages that smell like time itself.
"Look at this," she says, picking up a thick paperback. The cover shows two people holding hands on a beach — a second-chance romance. I take it from her. The title is The Last Page.The last book.
I blink. My fingers trace the spine. I remember a story Mom used to tell me about finishing things, about giving second chances. Maybe this is the kind of story I need right now. I nod silently and tuck it under my arm.
We leave the market and take the long route home, passing the old plaza where I used to play as a child. Lola points out that the fountain is still running, that the benches have been freshly painted. I pause, letting myself breathe in the smell of the warm stones, the water, the distant flowers.
"See?" Lola says softly. "This city hasn't changed. And maybe… maybe you can try, too."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
Later, Maeve comes by. She's carrying a small box of pastries, her smile gentle, careful. "Thought you might want these," she says. "You don't have to talk if you don't want to, but… I thought we could sit outside for a bit."
We sit on the small balcony, sunlight warming our shoulders, pastries between us. She talks quietly about the city, about her own sketches, her own memories from school. I listen, nod, take a small bite of sweet bread, and for the first time in days, I laugh — small, hesitant, but real.
"I… I forgot how nice this city is," I admit quietly. "Even with everything…" My voice trails off, and she just nods.
"You don't have to say anything more," she says. "Just being here counts."
Her presence is a little anchor, a reminder that maybe I don't have to be alone with all this. That maybe I can start trusting someone again, even a little.
Back at Lola's house, I open my sketchbook. For the first time in days, I put pencil to paper. Not perfect, not detailed — just lines, shapes, the way the sunlight hits the balcony railing, the curve of the flowers. My chest doesn't ache as much. My hands feel steady.
Later that night, I sit by the balcony again, the city stretching out below me. The stars are faint tonight, but I see one glinting through a gap in the clouds. I trace it with my eyes, my pendant catching the light softly.
I think of Evan. Of the betrayal. Of the heartbreak. It still hurts — it will always hurt, in ways I'm not ready to name. But for now, I let myself focus on small things: the warmth of Lola's hands in mine, the taste of sweet bread, the soft presence of Maeve sitting nearby.
Maybe healing doesn't come all at once. Maybe it comes in moments like this. In small, careful steps, in trust given slowly, in gentle sunlight spilling over tired shoulders.
I draw the balcony again tonight, lines softer than before, gentle and unsteady, but alive. I let the pencil move without thinking, without worrying, without pretending.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I might be able to breathe again.