The streets felt smaller than I remembered. The peeling paint on the old apartment complex, the uneven steps, the faint chatter of neighbors drifting out of open windows... it all pressed on me at once. Nostalgia, contrast, loneliness.
It was ridiculous, really, how foreign my own building felt after weeks in Kael's world of villas and private jets, staff bowing whenever I passed. Here, there was no grand staircase, no chandelier, no bodyguards lurking at the corners. Just a flickering hallway light and the musty scent of laundry detergent that reminded me of late nights with Olivia and mom.
By the time I reached my flat, my chest was tight. My fingers hovered over the key in my bag—but before I could slip it into the lock, I froze.
Muffled voices. A soft coo. A familiar cadence I hadn't heard in so long.
My heart stumbled. I knocked.
