The feeling of pride I left Blackwood Press with was a warm, steady glow in my chest. It carried me through the rest of the day. For the first time, I didn't just survive the hours; I inhabited them. But pride, I learned, does not pay rent. And so, once again, I found myself waiting.
This time, however, the waiting was different. The desperation was gone, replaced by a quiet patience. I had presented the truest version of myself, and the outcome was no longer a reflection of my worth. The silence from Blackwood Press was not a judgment. It was just… silence.
In this new, calmer state, I began to see my apartment with different eyes. The ghosts were still here, but they seemed more transparent, their power diminished. The space was no longer just a collection of painful memories, but a collection of objects that could be moved, changed, or discarded.
My gaze fell upon the lavender-scented diffuser on a small end table. Sera's diffuser. It had been her one non-negotiable item when we moved in, her tool for vanquishing the smell of the old building and my "stress," as she called it. Its scent, once a comforting blanket, now felt like a suffocating shroud.
I walked over, unplugged it, and emptied the remaining scented oil down the sink. I cleaned it meticulously until all traces of the lavender were gone, and then I packed it carefully into the empty box it came in. The action was simple, mundane, but it felt deeply significant. I wasn't just cleaning an object; I was clearing the air. I was serving an eviction notice to a ghost.
I spent the next two days sketching in my notebook. Not for a portfolio, not for a project, but for myself. The lines flowed from my pen with an ease I hadn't felt in years. I was rediscovering the simple joy of creation without expectation. I drank my peppermint tea and found that I was actually starting to enjoy its clean, sharp taste.
On the third day after the interview, my phone rang.
It wasn't a text, a notification, or an email. It was an actual call, from a number I didn't recognize. My heart gave a familiar, powerful leap, but my hand was steady as I answered.
"Hello?"
"Hello, may I speak with Elara Finch?" The voice was calm, professional, and female.
"This is she," I said, my throat suddenly dry.
"Ms. Finch, this is Helen Chapman from Blackwood Press."
I sank down onto the edge of my sofa, my knuckles white as I gripped the phone. This was it.
"I'm calling to follow up on your interview from Tuesday," she continued, her tone even. "The team and I were very impressed with your work and your thoughtful approach. We believe your design sensibilities are an excellent fit for our vision here."
There was a slight pause. It was the longest second of my life.
"We would like to formally offer you the position of Junior Designer."
The words landed not with a crash, but with a profound, earth-shaking quiet. All the noise in my head—the doubt, the fear, the ghost of Sera's laughter, the anxiety over the rent—it all just stopped. There was only Helen Chapman's voice on the other end of the line.
"Ms. Finch? Are you still there?"
Tears were welling in my eyes, but for the first time in a year, they weren't tears of sorrow. They were tears of pure, overwhelming relief. "Yes," I managed to say, my voice thick with emotion. "Yes, I'm here. Thank you. I… I accept."
"Wonderful," Helen said, a hint of warmth finally entering her voice. "Welcome to Blackwood Press. We'll email you the official offer letter and contract details this afternoon."
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then the call was over. I lowered the phone from my ear and stared at the blank screen.
I have a job. I can pay the rent. I have a future.
The statements were simple, factual, but they felt like a miracle. I had done it. Alone. The victory was so immense, so absolute, that I didn't know what to do with it. I had no one to call, no one to rush out and celebrate with. The triumph was mine, and mine alone, and in its solitude, it felt even more sacred.
My gaze swept across the living room. I saw the empty space on the end table where the diffuser used to be. I saw the box, now sealed with tape, waiting by the door. I saw the sun streaming through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.
This apartment was no longer a museum of what was. It was not a ruin. It was a blank canvas. It was the first page of a new book, and the architect, the designer, and the author was me.
A new thought, clear and bright, cut through the emotional haze. I knew exactly what I needed to do. I needed to buy a frame. A simple, elegant frame for the very first book cover I would design for Blackwood Press. It would be the first piece of new art on these walls. And it would be a beginning.