Sunlight slices through the curtains, cutting the quiet into sharp lines. I sit at the edge of my bed, half dressed, nerves thrumming beneath my skin. My feet find the cool boards. I pull on my blue hoodie—the one Mom gave me—and its familiar weight presses against my chest. Today isn’t easy. The ache of this date claws deep, but hiding under the covers won’t make it fade. So I move, each gesture heavy with memory, and make my way to the dresser.

My room is small—just a bed, dresser, closet, and makeup table—but it fits the apartment above the family bakery. For four years, I’ve lived here with my grandmother, Astrid, keeping the place alive the way she once did with my mother.

I open the window beside my dresser. Raindrops from last night speckle the glass, and a few lingering drops slide down, cool against my fingers.

Eldermoor is waking. Light stirs in windows across the neighborhood as one by one, homes blink alive.

A deep breath escapes me—and with it, the memory of sirens and a knock on the front door. My chest tightens; I remember the police escorting me to the morgue.

I pick up a photo from the dresser—Mom, Dad, and me. The edges are soft from years of holding. It was taken just a few weeks before the accident, not long after my seventeenth birthday. Time slipped by too fast since then, or maybe I just worked too hard to notice. I prop the photo against the mirror so they can see me—or maybe so I can see them—while I lace up my shoes and pull my hair into a tight ponytail. My reflection stares back: eyes the same color as my hoodie. Astrid once said my eyes are the only thing I didn’t inherit from my mother. Somehow, those words stayed.

“Morning,” I whisper to the picture, voice clear despite the tremor in my chest. “Big day, huh?”

After one last glance, I turn to the closet. The doors open on two color-coded schedules. One side tracks soccer: training goals, drills, youth-team tasks. The other covers schoolwork, video calls, and culinary lessons. Balancing both worlds is hard, but having friends chasing the same dream makes it bearable.

“I’m doing okay,” I tell the photograph softly. “The bakery’s busy, Grandma’s keeping me on my toes. School’s fine. The team’s hungry—we’re going for another trophy. You’d love that.” My tone steadies. “Some days are heavier than others, but I get through. I always do.”

It feels strange, talking to a picture, but it helps. I imagine their voices answering: We’re proud of you. We’re cheering from the sidelines. They never saw me play a championship match. I wonder if I’m still chasing trophies for them—or for me.

My phone buzzes on the dresser. 

Nathaniel: Thinking of you today. If you need anything, I’m here.

My chest tightens again. He means well, but I can’t open it. Not yet. Not today. I wonder whether my parents ever knew heartbreak like this—would they have understood?

“I’ll spare you the drama,” I mutter toward my mother’s frozen smile, rolling my eyes as I zip my bag. Practice later makes me anxious, but skipping isn’t an option. Being alone never helps.

Sometimes I hate how much I need Nathaniel’s comfort. Only with him can I fall apart for a moment—but needing someone isn’t weakness. It’s how we get back up. Still, I’m not ready for that—not after what happened, not on this day.

I glance once more at the photo, jaw firm. “Miss you,” I whisper, soft but unbroken. My palm rests on the frame before I slide in my earbuds and step out into the morning for a long run.

Eldermoor stirs as I jog through its narrow streets. Bakery windows glow gold. The river glitters, mirroring my stride. Poppies and cornflowers crowd the banks; ducks drift lazily downstream. The peace grounds me, but I keep moving, lungs pulling the chill air deep. Mrs. Jensen pushes her flower cart at the corner; I wave, and though her face is a blur from this distance, I know she’s smiling, same as always.

Turning onto Maple Lane, I imagine my mother running these same hills. She used to say cold mornings made her strong—that you learn who you are when your breath clouds and your legs burn. Sometimes I picture her beside me, our strides matching, her laughter echoing off the old brick walls.

My loop brings me back. The door chime greets me, and the scent of bread and flowers wraps around me as I step inside, cheeks flushed from the run.

“They came one by one this morning,” Astrid says without turning, arranging blooms. “Mrs. Jensen’s been busy with orders. Everyone wanted to remind us they haven’t forgotten.”

I move beside her, untying ribbons, arranging the bouquets. The air smells of petals and rising dough—grief softened by warmth.

“Your father once brought your mother a bouquet,” she murmurs, smiling. “Didn’t know she was allergic. She kept those flowers until they withered, even as they made her sneeze. Said it was the first thing he ever gave her, and she wanted to cherish it.”

I look down at the flowers in my hands, picturing that quiet, stubborn kind of love. “It’s nice,” I say quietly. “For them to let us know we’re not alone.”

Astrid nods, eyes misty but steady. “I told you, Freya—we’re all family here. We carry the memories, the bad and the beautiful alike.”

I lean in and kiss her cheek. Her presence anchors me.

She took me in when I was sixteen—a shattered girl pulled from wreckage. I sometimes forget she lost a daughter that day too. Their relationship had been strained, pride and regret stretching like a fault line between them. My mother’s fierce independence. My grandmother’s quiet guilt. Two stubborn hearts loving each other from opposite sides of silence.

In Astrid’s gentle eyes, I sometimes glimpse my mother’s laughter. Love lingers, even when it aches.

“Thank you for everything,” I tell her. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She squeezes my hand. “We keep going—for them, and for us.”

When the last customer leaves, I shower upstairs, then return to the kitchen. Rolling up my sleeves, I start kneading dough for tomorrow’s sourdough. The rhythm steadies me—the push, fold, press. The dough yields but resists, alive under my palms. The scent of yeast rises warm and sweet, comforting as a heartbeat.

The morning flows in rhythm—mixing, kneading, baking. Customers drift in and out, leaving soft laughter and the smell of rain on their coats. The hum of the ovens and the chime of the doorbell weave into a kind of peace.

By midday the shop buzzes with life. I wipe flour from my hands and watch through the window as Eldermoor moves on—people laughing, cars passing, life carrying itself forward. The scent of bread and blossoms dulls the weight in my chest, even if just for now.

When afternoon fades, I untie my apron and hang it neatly. Upstairs, I grab my sports bag; its familiar weight sparks both excitement and nerves. Avoiding Nathaniel forever isn’t an option. Not anymore.

I slip on my jacket, step outside, and mount my bike. Cool air brushes my cheeks as I pedal toward the field, heart racing with equal parts dread and hope. My mind replays all the words we might exchange—each one a coin flip between reconciliation and regret.