The first thing Lia learned about the world was this:
If no one claims you, you must learn how to disappear quietly.
She stood behind the café counter with a cracked tray in her hands, the smell of burnt coffee clinging to her clothes, while the woman in front of her shouted like Lia had personally ruined her life.
"Do you know who I am?" the woman snapped, manicured finger inches from Lia's face. "I waited twenty minutes for this order."
Lia lowered her head.
"I'm sorry, ma'am."
Sorry came easily. It always had.
Around them, customers watched with the same detached curiosity people reserved for accidents on the roadside—uncomfortable, but unwilling to intervene. The manager hovered near the register, eyes darting everywhere except at Lia.
"You people hire anyone these days," the woman continued. "Girls with no education, no manners, no—"
"No family," the manager cut in sharply, finally stepping forward. "She's new. I'll handle it."
The woman scoffed, grabbed her cup, and stormed out.
Lia released a breath she didn't realize she was holding.
The manager turned to her, irritation flashing across his face. "Clean table seven. And try not to cause scenes."
"I didn't—"
"Excuses won't pay rent," he interrupted. "If you can't handle customers, I'll find someone who can."
She nodded. Again.
That was her role.
Endure.
Disappear.
Be replaceable.
As she wiped down the table, Lia's gaze drifted to the reflection in the café window—a thin girl with tired eyes and a smile practiced enough to look real. No jewelry. No family photos in her wallet. No one waiting for her when her shift ended.
She had no last name worth mentioning.
No roots.
No one to call in emergencies.
She was twenty-three years old and officially existed on paper only because someone, somewhere, had bothered to register a birth they never followed up on.
That night, when she returned to the cramped apartment she shared with her foster aunt, the door was locked.
Again.
She knocked softly at first. Then harder.
After a long pause, the door opened just enough for her aunt's sharp eyes to appear. "You're late."
"I worked overtime," Lia said quietly.
Her aunt scoffed. "And you think that excuses you from contributing more? Food isn't free. Electricity isn't free."
"I gave you my pay yesterday."
"Not enough." The door opened fully now, revealing the living room—and the family seated comfortably inside, eating dinner. There was no plate for her.
Lia swallowed.
"I'll make something later," she said.
Her aunt waved a dismissive hand. "Don't leave a mess."
Lia retreated to the small room at the back of the apartment—the one without windows, the one that smelled faintly of mold. She sat on the edge of the bed and removed her shoes slowly, carefully, as if sudden movements might remind the world she was still there.
Sometimes, she wondered what it would feel like to belong somewhere.
Sometimes, she wondered if she ever had.
Her phone buzzed suddenly.
She frowned. No one ever messaged her.
Unknown Number:
Stop pretending you're nobody.
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
Another message appeared almost immediately.
Unknown Number:
You were never meant to live like this.
Lia's heart began to pound.
"Who is this?" she typed back, hands shaking.
The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Then appeared again.
Unknown Number:
Someone who knows what they took from you.
The room felt smaller. The walls closer.
Before she could reply, a final message came through.
Unknown Number:
The Kingsley name belongs to you.
The phone slipped from her hand and hit the floor.
Lia stared at the cracked ceiling above her, her breathing uneven, her mind racing.
Kingsley?
The name echoed in her head—too heavy, too distant, too powerful to belong to someone like her.
Outside, the city lights glittered—cold, indifferent, unreachable.
Inside a windowless room, a stray girl sat frozen in place, unaware that her life had just split cleanly in two.
And somewhere in that same city, powerful people were already moving to make sure she never discovered the truth.