Chapter 25— Days of Silence
Lyra's POV
Two weeks pass.
Two weeks of quiet mornings and evenings, two weeks of sketching in the garden, of walking the streets with Lola, of pretending — forcing myself — to breathe a little easier.
But each evening, the same sight greets me: cars lining the street outside the house. Evan, Soraya, Saphira, Aveline, Cassian. Their presence is heavy, suffocating. I see them through the curtains, sitting silently, sometimes talking quietly, sometimes just staring. Every day. Every single day.
I don't move the curtains. I don't speak to them. I don't even acknowledge their existence. But they're there, a constant shadow. And it's impossible to ignore.
I try to tell myself it's their guilt. Their desperation. That I'm safe, and they can't touch me here. But every time I see Evan shift in his seat, running a hand through his hair, scanning the yard, my chest tightens. My fingers clench around the pencil in my sketchbook. My stomach twists.
Mom notices my tension, the way I flinch at the faint roar of engines. "Lyra… are you sure you don't want to talk to them?" she asks softly one morning.
"No," I murmur. "I'm fine."
She sighs, but doesn't push. She knows better than to force me.
During the days, I keep myself busy. I draw. I visit the little café where I spent hours as a child, sketching patrons and the small, worn wooden tables. I help Lola in the garden. I read The Last Page, letting myself get lost in Nora and Calen's world — a world where mistakes could be forgiven, where love could find a second chance.
Maeve comes by a few times, always gentle, always patient. We walk through the small plaza, watch the fountain, feed the pigeons. She doesn't ask about Saint Valley, about the bet, about Evan. And for now, that's enough. Her presence doesn't hurt like the others do. She makes it easier to feel… normal again.
But then, night falls.
I sit on the balcony again, watching the cars below. Evan's always there. Every evening. I catch glimpses of him on the driver's seat, phone in hand, texting, talking to the others quietly. Sometimes he glances up at my window. Sometimes he doesn't. But he's there.
I want to yell at him to leave. I want to scream that he had no right to hurt me. That I don't need his apologies. That I… I don't even know if I can ever forgive him.
And yet… a part of me aches. A small, stubborn piece of my heart twists at the sight of him sitting there, so close, but unreachable.
I tell myself it doesn't matter. That I'm better off without them for now. That the city, the quiet, the sketching, Maeve, and my Lola — they are enough.
But every night, as I watch them wait, as I see Evan lean back in his seat, exhale slowly, I remember everything. The whispering at the gates. The betrayal. The last four years. The way he used to call me "Sol," the way he made me feel like light.
I hug my knees to my chest, pencil trembling in my hand. My sketchbook lies open on the balcony railing, but I can't bring myself to draw. Not tonight. Not while they're outside.
I let myself think of them quietly, painfully, and the tears threaten to spill again.
Then, I close my eyes and focus on the little things: the warm scent of the garden, the soft breeze on my skin, the way the stars glint through the clouds above. One day at a time. That's all I can do.
One day at a time.