The air felt crisp, with an even smell of the previous night's rain. Anya could wake up to the murmured giggles of the children playing outside. She stayed there for a bit in her bed, observing the cracked ceiling of the room where she was lodged. It wasn't so much, but it belonged to her at least till that point. It was a far cry from the life she thought she would have, but in this moment, she realized it was enough. She got up, tied her hair into a loose braid, and stepped out into the courtyard. The children were gathered around a table, eating bread and porridge. Some of them looked up at her curiously, their eyes wide and full of questions.
"Good morning," she said softly. Her voice sounded foreign, as if the warmth in it was borrowed. A few children mumbled greetings before turning back to their food. The quiet one from last night, the girl named Lily, sat in the corner, nibbling on her bread, her eyes darting around as if she were bracing for something.
Martha appeared beside her, holding two cups of tea. "You'll find they warm up eventually," she said, handing one to Anya.
"I hope so," Anya replied, glancing at the children. "They've been through so much, haven't they?"
Martha nodded, her expression softening. "More than most adults. But kids are resilient. They just need someone to show them they matter."
Anya swallowed the lump in her throat, her eyes stuck on Lily. For the first time in weeks, she felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be.
Lessons started after breakfast. Anya was given a small set of supplies: torn and worn notebooks, a handful of pencils, and a box of crayons. The classroom was a shaded space in the courtyard, fitted with mismatched benches and a chalkboard supported against the wall.
The children entered, some chattering with excitement, others quiet and watchful. Anya felt a shiver of nerves as she stood there before them, holding up a piece of chalk.
"Hello, everyone," she started. "I am Anya, and I will be assisting you in your studies."
The children stared at her, a mixture of curiosity and distrust. She chose to play it light.
Let's have something fun," she said, doodling a large, lopsided sun on the chalkboard. "Can you guys draw what makes you happy?
She distributed the paper and crayons, sitting back and observing as the children slowly went to work. There was an initial tentative silence only punctuated by the scraping of crayons on paper. But then, there was a room full of quiet murmurs and random giggles.
Anya moved from bench to bench, praising their work. "That's a beautiful flower, Ava! And look at your house, Tommy; it looks so cozy!"
When she reached Lily, the girl had drawn something simple but striking: a red scarf, floating in the wind.
"That's lovely, Lily," Anya said, crouching down to meet her eyes. "It looks so free. Do you like scarves?"
Lily nodded, but she didn't utter a single word. Still, a spark of something flickered across her eyes: maybe trust, or at least its budding.
For a fleeting instant, Anya's chest felt unusually lightened. This, this link, no matter how weak, was like a small triumph.
---
The day passed in a blur of crayons, laughter, and a few tears. By evening, Anya was exhausted but content. The children were asleep, and the courtyard was quiet, lit only by the dim glow of a single bulb.
Martha found her sitting on the steps, staring up at the sky.
"You did good today," Martha said, sitting beside her.
Thanks," Anya replied, her voice low. "It felt. right. Like I was finally doing something that mattered."
Martha nodded, her eyes thoughtful. "That's the thing about this place. It gives you purpose, even when you don't think you deserve it.
Any thoughts on her past, betrayed and destroyed and chaotic, she could hardly stand, and a life that was left behind kept flooding her mind. She knew she couldn't deny it forever.
"Do you know any lawyers?" she suddenly asked, her voice full of hesitation.
Martha turned to her with her brows furrowed a little. "A lawyer? For what, dear?
Anya hesitated. She hadn't told anyone here about Elliot or the mess her life had become. But she realized she couldn't keep running.
"I need to file for divorce," she said finally, her words firm despite the lump in her throat.
After looking at her for a while, Martha nodded. "I know somebody. Eleanor Drake. She's tough, fair, and won't back down. I'll get you her number."
A wave of relief washed over Anya's face, though it was now tinged with anxiety. "Thanks. I don't know where to begin with this."
Martha gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Step by step, Anya. You will make it through.
She fell asleep on that bed at night, tangled in thoughts fear and hope, something of rest. The picture of the red scarf that Lily had in her possession; the chattering children; Martha always standing there as a fortress of confidence appeared in front of her vision.
Tonight, she first felt after weeks that there might be tomorrow. And this would definitely not be smooth sailing; she was going to be ready for this fight after all.
She would call the lawyer tomorrow. She would make the step forward tomorrow.
It was a still night, heavy with the quiet hum of the city far below. Elliot lay sprawled across the bed in his high-rise apartment, his shirt undone, exposing the smooth planes of his chest. A cigarette dangled from his fingers, the faint glow of its embers the only light in the dim room apart from the soft golden hue of a bedside lamp. Smoke drifted lazily upward, coiling like secrets in the air.
Beside him, the woman shifted, pressing closer. Her auburn hair spilled across the pillows like liquid fire, and her manicured fingers traced his jawline with practiced ease. The room smelled of her perfume rich, heady, intoxicating. But Elliot barely noticed her presence. His mind was elsewhere, tangled in thoughts he couldn't quite shake.
"Still thinking about her?" she asked, her voice sultry, edged with curiosity.
Elliot didn't answer immediately. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke that hung between them like a barrier. "She hasn't come back," he muttered finally, his tone unreadable.
The woman tilted her head, studying him. "And you're surprised? After what happened today, Elliot, she's probably done with you."
Elliot's lips curled up into a bitter smile, but his eyes remained far away. "Anya's not the type to leave. She's too. predictable. Always doing what's expected. She'll be back."
"Predictable?" The woman raised an eyebrow, her hand stilling on his chest. "She caught you, Elliot. In every sense of the word. Do you think she'll just let this go?
He looked at her then, his blue eyes cold, without any regret. "She'll let it go because she doesn't have a choice. Anya doesn't know how to exist without me. She needs me more than I ever needed her."
The woman's lips curled up into a small, bemused smile. "So that's how you justify it? That she needed you too much?
Elliot's jaw clamped his face, his head swinging away. "That is not justification. That is reality. I gave her everything for two years. Played the role she wanted me to play. And what? So that I might live in a gilded cage made of her expectations?"
"She loved you," she whispered, her voice with something, pretending like pity she knew it.
Elliot let out a low, humorless chuckle. "Maybe she did. But love like hers. It suffocates. It wraps itself around you and squeezes until there's nothing left of who you really are. I couldn't breathe with her anymore."
The woman fell silent, her emerald eyes flickering with something he couldn't quite place. Sympathy? never... disdain? Always....
She leaned in closer and put her head on his shoulder. "You think she'll come back because she needs you," she said softly. "But what if you're wrong? What if you broke her so badly she'll never look your way again?
Elliot stubbed out his cigarette with a sharp motion, the sound of it hissing against the ashtray filling the quiet. "Anya doesn't have anywhere else to go," he said flatly. "She'll come crawling back. They always do."
The woman's lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. She leaned closer to him.
He did not say anything, only reached for another cigarette and lit it with a quick flick of his lighter. The flame danced across his face, casting fleeting shadows across his jawline, where tension played.
In each breath he drew, thoughts turned to Anya. How she might look when leaving: stunned by disbelief, pained and angry. It ought to have left him fulfilled a good break free of the life he'd lived out but somehow just left that sense of pain still lingering like smoke at the edges of his mind.
The woman beside him sensed his withdrawal and leaned in to kiss his jawline. Her lips were soft, warm, lingering a moment too long. "Forget her," she whispered, her voice almost pleading.
Elliot didn't move, his gaze fixed on the swirling smoke in the air. "I already have," he lied, his voice colder than he intended.
And yet again, the room held still, except for the far-off hum of the air conditioning. The woman went back into his side as her eyes closed. Still, Elliot sat awake with a cigarette, his own thoughts a tangle in all senses between resentment, regret, and an emotion he would not confess.
Because deep down, beneath the layers of his ego and rationalizations, a single thought clawed at the edges of his mind: What if Anya never looked back?