The sky wept with her. Raindrops slid down Nora's black coat as she stood at the edge of the grave, fists clenched until her nails bit into her palms.

Behind her, Emerald stood unmoved. She didn't care—not really—but she knew she had to be there for Nora.

Murmured condolences drifted around her, meaningless against the hollow ache in her chest. She wanted to scream, to run, to do anything but stand there and watch as they lowered her mother into the ground.

The gravedigger exhaled sharply before lifting the first shovel of soil and tipping it forward. The dirt landed with a muted thud, the first of many.

Nora's heart sank. This was goodbye—goodbye to her confidant, her everything.

The grave was covered. Just like that, it was over.

Emerald sighed and stepped closer. "We have to leave now," she said, her tone bleak.

The ride home was long and silent. Nora stared out the window, watching the streetlights blur past. Emerald sat beside her, relaxed, unaffected, as if the weight of the day had never touched her. Grief didn't cling to her the way it did to others—she carried only what she wanted to.

"It's okay to cry, you know," Emerald said, attempting conversation, though she knew it was pointless.

Nora didn't respond. She wasn't holding back tears—there were none. Just emptiness.

But she wasn't staying in it.

Her flight was booked. Her bags were already packed. Soon, she would be gone.

This would be the last time she saw these streets, these people who had stood by and watched as her mother suffered, beaten to death by the man they all ignored. There was nothing left for her here.

She gave no heed to Emerald's words—she never had.

They were the same age, bound only by circumstance. Their relationship had always been an understanding more than a connection—mutual tolerance, boundaries never crossed, yet somehow still sharing the most intimate thoughts.

A fresh start—un nouveau départ—was what she needed. And London was waiting.

She could no longer endure Oakmere, Her mother had been the only reason she stayed. Now, she was buried, and so was that reason.

Oakmere was a quiet town on the outskirts of Scotland's capital, nestled close to the countryside. It was a place where history weighed heavily, where names mattered, and where tradition often took precedence over progress. Nora's family had once been at the heart of it—one of the founding names whispered with a mix of reverence and expectation.

Mr. Wilson had been well-respected in Oakmere, known for his generosity and quiet influence. He funded projects, restored the school, and ensured no family went without.

Then, one evening, he vanished. Days later, his car was found crashed into a tree, the cause unclear. Some called it an accident, others whispered there was more to the story. No one looked deeper.

Nora was five. Too young to understand loss, only old enough to know that nothing would be the same. Her father was gone, and the weight of his absence unraveled everything her family had built. Maria, now a widow, was expected to step into his place, but Oakmere had already decided—power was not hers to hold. She was dismissed, stripped of everything her husband had left behind.

Then came Argon.

A man who arrived in Oakmere without history, yet somehow belonged. He spoke little, but when he did, people listened. He had presence, control. Maria, struggling to keep a life that was slipping through her fingers, let herself believe he was the answer.

He didn't come alone.

Emerald, his daughter, was five—the same age as Nora—but carried herself like she had already figured out the world. She fit into the household easily, though never in a way that felt like family. She never saw Maria as a mother—never needed to.

The town whispered, some in pity, others in quiet approval. A woman alone had few choices, and Argon carried himself like a man who made decisions. Maria, once left fighting for her place, now had someone to stand beside her.

At first, they were the image of devotion. Maria smiled again, Oakmere welcomed them, and if she ever hesitated, she convinced herself there was no reason to.

But love, at least the kind she thought she had, was temporary.

The warmth faded, replaced by something colder. His grip on her arm would linger a second too long. His words, once careful, sharpened at the edges. It wasn't sudden. It crept in, quiet and unspoken, weaving itself into the fabric of their home.

It began with a look—a warning in his eyes that needed no words.

Then came the silences, heavy and deliberate, pressing down on her more than his touch ever did.

Then came the bruises. At first, behind closed doors. Then, out in the open.

Oakmere saw the bruises. Heard the sharp intake of breath when she moved too quickly. And yet, no one spoke. No one stopped it.

And for Nora, Argon wasn't just a violent man. He was something else entirely.

She never had the words for it, not when she was younger. Only the feeling—an unease that thickened the air when he was near, the way her breath hitched when his gaze lingered too long, the weight of his presence like a shadow stretching over her childhood.

He had always scared her.

And he always would.

Maria was the only real comfort she had.

Emerald had grown up in the same house, under the same roof, but Maria was never her mother—never someone she looked to for guidance or warmth. She simply existed in Emerald's world, neither needed nor missed.

She never said it outright, but it showed in the way she carried herself, in the effortless detachment that never wavered, even when Maria tried to reach her.

There were moments, brief and inconsequential, where they shared something resembling connection—a glance, a passing word. But it was never enough to bridge the space between them.

Maria was there. That was all. And in the end, she was just another presence Emerald learned to live without.

One morning, the town awoke to the sound of sirens. It wasn't common for police to be called in Oakmere, but when Maria's body was found at the edge of the lake, there was no looking away.

Her nightgown was soaked through, the fabric clinging to her like a second skin, her body half-submerged in the water. Bruises lined her arms, her face, the unmistakable mark of a struggle. But it was the wound on her head—the deep gash just above her temple—that told the real story.

An accident, some whispered. A fall. Maybe she had been drinking and slipped.

But Maria didn't drink.

And Argon was gone.

No bags packed, no signs of a struggle. His truck remained untouched. It was as if he had stepped into the night and vanished.

The town had no answers, only whispers. Some said he fled out of guilt. Others wondered if someone had gotten to him first.

No body was ever found. No trail left behind.Emerald's voice pulled Nora from her thoughts.

"Nora… are you getting your bags, or should I?"

They were home, but it didn't feel like home anymore.

Nora hesitated, unwilling to step inside the house that haunted her dreams. Without waiting for an answer, Emerald sighed and walked in.

A few minutes later, she returned with the luggage, Simon helping her load it into the trunk.

The airport was minutes away, but the drive felt endless. One moment, Nora was in the car; the next, she was on the plane, staring out the window as Oakmere shrank beneath her.

As the plane ascended, so did the weight of the town—the whispers, the silence, the years of suffering—fading into the distance. She exhaled, only then realizing she had been holding her breath. Tears followed. It was over.

Twenty-two years in a place that had never felt like home. But now, she was free. A new life awaited—a life of her own.

Her first night in London was restless. Camden felt different, unfamiliar. As she lay awake, her thoughts drifted to her mother and the life she had left behind.

When morning came, the soft knock at the door barely registered. She hesitated before opening it, her heart pounding for no reason she could name. At her feet lay a single envelope, unmarked except for her name, written in elegant, unfamiliar handwriting.

Her fingers trembled as she tore it open. The paper was thick—personal, the kind meant to be kept.

"Dear Nora,

You don't know me, but I saw you yesterday. At the airport. You stood still while the world rushed around you, and for a moment, I wondered what you were thinking. You didn't look lost, not in the way people do when they don't know where they are—but in the way people do when they don't know where they belong.

I know that feeling. I've lived in this city long enough to know that London swallows some people whole and gives others a place to become someone new. I hope it gives you the latter.

I don't usually do this—I don't stop, I don't notice. But yesterday, I did. And now, I'm writing to you, a stranger, because something tells me you're not just passing through. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'll never hear from you. Or maybe, this is the start of something neither of us saw coming.

—A friend."

Nora's fingers tightened around the letter. The words weren't unkind—just too observant. But what unsettled her most was the first thing she noticed.

She looked around, suddenly aware of how alone she was. No one had her address. So how had this letter found her?

The city buzzed outside, but all she could hear was the pounding of her heart.

Then, at the bottom of the page, her breath stalled, her pulse stuttering.

"P.S. This is only the beginning."