Luna didn't go home.
She rode her motorcycle through the city for hours. Aimless. Numb. The sun rose and she barely noticed. Her body moved on autopilot while her mind screamed.
Maya was dead.
The words didn't feel real. Couldn't be real.
By noon, Luna found herself parked outside Maya's house again. She didn't remember deciding to come here. Her body just brought her.
She sat on her bike and stared at the front door. Waiting. Hoping Maya would open it with that warm smile and tell her it was all a mistake.
The door stayed closed.
Luna finally dismounted. She Walked up the steps. Her legs felt like lead. She used her key to unlock the door and stepped inside.
The house smelled like lavender and vanilla. Like Maya. Like home.
Luna stood in the entryway and couldn't move. Everything looked normal. The coat rack by the door. The shoes lined up neatly. The photographs on the wall.
But Maya wasn't here.
And would never be here again.
Luna's chest tightened. She forced herself to walk into the kitchen. The tea kettle sat on the stove. Two cups on the counter. Maya had been preparing tea before she left.
Before she went to the market.
Before the accident.
Luna picked up one of the cups. Her hands were shaking. The cup slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor.
She stared at the broken pieces and felt something crack inside her chest.
A sound escaped her throat. Half sob. Half scream.
Luna sank to her knees on the kitchen floor. Surrounded by broken ceramic. And she let herself break too.
She cried until there were no tears left. Until her throat was raw. Until she was empty.
When she finally stood up, the sun was setting. Hours had passed. Luna walked through the house like a ghost.
The living room where they'd watched old movies together. The bathroom where Maya had washed blood from her skin hundreds of times. The spare bedroom where Luna sometimes slept when the nightmares got too bad.
She climbed the stairs.
Passed Maya's bedroom. Couldn't bring herself to go inside.
Stopped at the third door.
The nursery.
Luna pushed it open slowly. Everything was exactly as they'd left it three years ago.
The white crib in the corner. The rocking chair by the window. Pale yellow curtains. A mobile with stars and moons hanging above the crib.
Maya had helped her pick out everything. She had been so excited about the baby. She knitted blankets and bought tiny clothes and talked about being a grandmother.
Luna walked to the closet and opened it. The baby clothes were still there. Folded neatly. Little onesies. Tiny socks. The pink blanket Maya had made by hand.
Luna pulled out the blanket and held it against her chest.
"I lost my baby," she whispered to the empty room. Her voice broke. "And now I've lost you too."
She slid down the wall and sat on the floor. Clutched the blanket. The grief was suffocating. Crushing.
Maya was the only person who knew about the baby. The only one who had been there through the pregnancy. The birth. The devastating moment when Victor told Luna her daughter had died.
Maya had held Luna while she sobbed. Had promised her it would get better. Had been her anchor when everything else fell apart.
And now she is gone too.
Luna didn't know how long she sat there. The light faded. Night fell. The house grew dark.
Finally, she forced herself to stand. She folded the blanket carefully and put it back in the closet.
As she turned to leave, something tugged at her memory.
The secret room.