"—Evergreen Palace's bankruptcy scandal remains one of the most shocking collapses in recent memory. While former CEO, Isaac Vale, awaits trial, new evidence continues to emerge—"
The television in the waiting room blares as if trying to scrape my nerves raw. I turn my face away from the screen. It's mounted high on the cream-colored wall, flickering with images of men in suits walking through a courtroom.
There's someone so familiar, handcuffed and stiff, flanked by officers. His eyes are as cold and unreadable as ever. The same eyes I inherited, though mine now only hold the weight of loss.
The receptionist flicks a glance at me, uncomfortable. She's young. Maybe my age. Probably wonders if I'll cause a scene like I did the first time. I don't blame her. I'm nothing but a son of a criminal now.
A low chime signals the door behind the reception desk unlocking. I stand up.
Room 302 always smells like bleach and roses. Too clean. Too artificial. Like someone lives here but never moves. My mother sits near the window, her posture ramrod straight, as if still stuck in some eternal tea party from her glory days. Her hair is perfectly combed, but her eyes … they look straight through me with no emotion.
"Hi, Mom," I whisper.
She doesn't respond. Her fingers twitch slightly against the armrest.
I sit beside her, silent. There's no point in small talk. Not when her mind is still frozen in the day it all fell apart.
It was only two months ago.
Two months since our name—Vale family—was burned into headlines, spat out on every channel, every newspaper. My mother collapsed during a press ambush outside the courtroom. I watched as the cameras zoomed in, feeding off her pain like vultures.
And me? I vanished.
The boy who once walked through Evergreen Palace's halls in pride and tailored suit now takes the subway and eats stale toast for dinner.
"How are you? Have you eaten?" I ask, but don't even expect an answer. I'm happy enough as long as she's still alive. "I still haven't found a job. But I promise to keep trying. Please, be patient, Mom. You'll be alright."
I stay for twenty minutes, just enough to say I tried, and then I leave. The nurse gives me a sympathetic smile as I sign out. I wonder how long it'll be before my mom stops recognizing me completely.
Outside, the afternoon hangs heavy, gray clouds smudging the sky. I shove my hands into my coat pockets and start walking. The streets blur past. I'm not sure where I'm going until the scent of ground coffee and cigarette smoke steers me into a narrow alley cafe.
It's quieter here. Dimly lit. Old jazz playing from a corner speaker. The kind of place where no one asks for your name or your story—I hope so.
I order a black coffee and step out onto the patio. It's cold, but not unbearable. My hand trembles slightly as I reach into my bag and pull out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. I found it at home—hidden in the back of one of my dad's drawers—when I cleaned up the house. I didn't know why I took it. Maybe I wanted to feel closer to him. Maybe I wanted to ruin something of his.
I slide one out and press it to my lips. I've never smoked before.
The lighter clicks awkwardly in my hand before finally catching on the third try. It takes three tries before the flame catches. I inhale—and immediately cough, nearly doubling over as the smoke scorches my throat.
"First time?" a voice says.
I look up, startled.
A man slides into the seat across from me, uninvited. His hair is dark, a little too long for his own good—because it makes him look fine. He's wearing a turtle neck shirt, big coat, and a look that's somewhere between curiosity and amusement.
"What?" I ask, eyes narrowing.
"You're holding it all wrong," he says, gesturing toward the cigarette clumsily wedged between my fingers. "And your lungs clearly hate you for trying."
I stub it out in the ashtray with more force than necessary. "Thanks for the commentary."
"You're welcome."
There's a pause. He doesn't leave. It bothers me. "Do you normally crash people's tables?" I ask.
"Only when they look like they're about to implode," he replies, eyes flicking briefly to the still-smoking stub in the tray. "Or explode."
"I'm not like that, wrong person." He raises an eyebrow. "Seriously," I say, more defensively than intended.
He leans back. "Sure. Totally fine. Sitting alone, outside a cafe in near-freezing weather, chain-coughing from a cigarette you clearly don't want to smoke."
I glare at him, unsure whether to be angry or impressed. He likes to make unnecessary analysis, huh?
"You're not from around here," he adds, voice is softer now. I don't know if it's a question or a statement. "You look ... out of place."
"Wow. You must be a detective."
"I'll take it as a compliment," he says.
The ashes in the ashtray looks more interesting than his curious eyes. I wish to be alone to think about my life but God doesn't let me do it. Instead, He sends me this random guy out of nowhere.
Based on the way he looks, he's at least few years older than me. Maybe 25 or 26?
"What's your name?"
He smiles faintly, as if amused that I finally asked. "Noah."
I don't tell him mine. Not yet. I wonder if he recognized me—at least, not aloud. Maybe he doesn't know. Maybe he does.
Let's be honest, almost everyone in this city now has seen my face at least once—on the TV. The golden heir of Evergreen Palace that's crumbling down. Tch, just think about it alone gives me ick.
"It's okay for me to sit here for a little longer, right?"
That sounds between question and suggestion. I just shrug. "Well, whatever. Even though there are a lot of available table."
I sit across from a stranger who seems so calm and composed. He does nothing but watching me like I'm some kind of statue that needs to be studied.
For few minutes, we just sit still, watching our surroundings. The neighborhood has good vibes. I didn't know there was such a place in this big city. Not busy nor noisy, quite the opposite I must say.
The coffee on the table grows cold. And in the ashes of a cigarette I didn't mean to smoke, something begins. Not hope—not yet. But maybe ... possibility.