The first winter without her mother arrived with brittle air and no plans.
Campus emptied fast. Her roommate Rachel left to spend Christmas skiing in Westridge. Most of her classmates were gone by the second week of December. Elena stayed behind as long as she could, haunting the quiet library and reheating noodles in the dorm kitchenette.
But eventually, the building began to close down for the holidays, and the silence became unbearable.
She had nowhere to go.
No siblings. No aunts. No Margaret Hart waiting with soup and cheap movies.
She was standing outside the administration building one late afternoon, clutching a thermal mug and wondering if she could stay in a youth hostel for two weeks, when her phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
Hi Elena — this is Mr. Coleman, your old math teacher. Diana gave me your number. I heard about your mother. I'm deeply sorry. I've thought of you often.
If you're not traveling for break, you're welcome to stay with my wife and me. Just until the new term. No pressure at all. Just want you to be safe.
Elena read it twice.
Mr. Coleman.
She remembered his kind voice, his rolled-up sleeves, the way he always made math feel like a language only she could speak fluently.
He had never been anything but decent.
Still, she hesitated.
She had also heard things back then. Not accusations exactly—just rumors. Whispers that came with a nervous laugh. "Coleman's too friendly," some students had said. "I wouldn't leave my daughter alone in that classroom."
But Mr. Coleman had never touched her. Never crossed a line. Not once.
And she had nowhere else to go.
Two days later, she stood on the porch of a red brick townhouse in West Hollow, her duffel bag at her feet.
The door opened, and Mr. Coleman stood there, older now, still tall, with flecks of grey in his beard. He smiled—not wide, not over-eager. Just… kind.
"Elena," he said. "It's good to see you."
"Thanks for inviting me," she replied, stepping inside.
The house smelled of coffee and wood polish. Books lined the shelves. A ginger cat blinked at her from the staircase.
And at the end of the hall, a woman appeared.
She was striking—tall, thin, in a wine-colored cardigan and dark jeans. Her hair was braided neatly, and her expression was hard to read.
"Elena, this is my wife, Rachel," Mr. Coleman said.
Rachel extended a hand. "Nice to meet you. We've made up the guest room. Hope you're okay with cats."
"I love cats," Elena said quietly.
Rachel didn't smile.
The first two nights were fine.
She helped cook, kept to herself, and spent most of her time in the guest room with her laptop, reading articles about grief and watching reruns of old shows her mom used to love.
Mr. Coleman left her alone. He only ever knocked once—to ask if she needed anything. His wife, however, kept her distance.
It was on the third night that Elena caught Rachel staring at her over dinner—really staring. Not rudely. Just… measuring.
Elena set down her fork. "Is something wrong?"
Rachel blinked. "No. Just… wondering."
Mr. Coleman looked between them, sensing the tension.
Rachel continued, "You were one of Andrew's students, right?"
"Yes," Elena said.
"How long ago?"
"About four years."
Rachel nodded slowly, then looked back down at her plate.
Later that night, as Elena climbed the stairs, she heard muffled voices from the kitchen.
Rachel: "You should've told me you'd invited her."
Andrew: "I did. You just weren't listening."
Rachel: "A seventeen-year-old girl from your past shows up at our house, and you think that's a casual decision?"
Andrew: "She's not seventeen anymore. And she's grieving. That's all this is."
Elena froze halfway up the stairs.
She wasn't naïve.
Rachel wasn't just suspicious—she was afraid of something. Something unspoken.
Something that made the walls of this kind house suddenly feel too tight.
Elena barely slept that night.
She kept the lamp on and lay still beneath the covers, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. The muffled argument downstairs echoed long after it ended, and with each passing hour, the warmth in Mr. Coleman's home drained into something brittle.
She wasn't afraid of him.
But she was afraid of what other people saw when they looked at her.
The next morning, Rachel didn't come to breakfast.
Mr. Coleman offered her eggs and toast with a tired smile. His shoulders looked lower than the day before, as if he'd aged five years overnight.
"Everything okay?" Elena asked, watching him move around the kitchen like someone tiptoeing in his own home.
He hesitated. "Just one of those days."
They didn't speak much after that.
Around midday, Elena returned from a walk to find Rachel in the living room, seated stiffly on the edge of the couch, flipping through a magazine without turning the pages.
She looked up as Elena entered. "Can we talk?"
Elena froze, halfway out of her coat. "Okay."
Rachel stood and gestured to the other armchair. "Please. Sit."
Elena sat.
There was a long pause. Then Rachel spoke—clear, steady, unnervingly calm.
"I want to be honest with you, Elena. I don't think you belong here."
Elena blinked. "I… I didn't ask to stay long. Just until—"
"I know. And I agreed. But it doesn't feel right." Rachel looked her straight in the eye. "Not because of anything you've done. But because of everything that's been said."
"Said by who?"
Rachel leaned back. "You're not the first student Andrew's brought up in conversation. But you're the first one who ever came to stay."
Elena's heart thudded once—loud and dull.
"He never touched me," she said flatly.
"I didn't say he did."
"But that's what you think."
Rachel's eyes narrowed. "I think Andrew has good intentions and bad instincts. And I think you've been through enough without being dragged into whatever unresolved thing this is."
Elena stood up. "Then say it plainly. You think he's grooming me. Or that I'm seducing him. Or both."
Rachel didn't respond.
Elena's voice shook. "I came here because I have nowhere else to go. Not because I'm in love with your husband. Not because I need attention. I came because I'm twenty years old, alone in the world, and scared."
Rachel exhaled—slow, conflicted. "Then I suggest you find somewhere safer to be scared."
Elena packed that evening.
Mr. Coleman didn't try to stop her. He knocked on the guest room door once, just as she was folding her last sweater.
"I'm sorry," he said softly from the hallway.
"I know," she answered. "I didn't blame you."
He slid something under the door—a brown envelope. "It's not much. But it'll cover a few nights at the hostel on Cherry Street. You deserve more than this, Elena. I hope you find it."
She opened the door, looked at him for a long time, then said, "I hope she's wrong about you."
The hostel bunk bed was narrow and loud—snoring roommates, shared bathrooms, flickering hallway lights.
But it was hers. And no one looked at her like she was a problem.
She texted Diana that night.
Hey. I had to leave the Colemans. It got weird. I'm okay though. Just needed to say it to someone.
Diana replied within the hour.
Elena. I'm so sorry. Where are you now? Give me the address. I'm coming to get you.
Elena hesitated, then replied.
No. Not yet. I think I need space. Just wanted someone to know. Thank you for being that person.
For the second time in her life, Elena had walked away from a house that no longer felt like shelter.
She didn't know what came next. But at least now, she was learning to walk alone.