Tracy's POV
Mrs. Callahan car slowed and braked, tires crunching gravel. My brow was pressed against the cold of the window glass, and for the first time since the storm began, I saw that the rain had dropped off to a drizzle. Outside the car was a blur of darkness. Trees, fences, a small gate creaking open as she pushed it.
Her house wasn't large, nothing at all like the estate my family had bred me on. It was a modest one-story bungalow with peeling white paint, a poor porch light sending a pale beam of light into the darkness. There were flower pots on the door, flowers waterlogged and awry from the rain. The air smelled of wet earth, aged wood, and something faintly comforting— such as herbs clinging to the moist night air.
" This is me." Mrs. Callahan spoke softly as she pulled into the driveway. She looked at me for a moment, wondering what she should do next, then slightly nodded as though making up her mind. "Come on inside, child."
I nodded, but my body was too heavy for me to move. When she pushed her door open, the porch light spilled warmly into the car. It reached out and pulled on me, calling me from the shadows. My legs shaking as I stepped out, my ruined dress clung to me as if it would never let me go.
She lived in comfortable but humble surroundings. Inside was simple but warm. There was a thin rug that ran along the living room floor, sprinkled with tiny flowers. Black and white photographs lined the mantle— children smiling, sepia views of strangers, black and white portraits. The air was lavender and books and something cooking that stuck to the walls.
It wasn't great. It wasn't perfect. But it was… safe. And that was worth more than gold today.
Mrs. Callahan's gaze swept me, registering the dirt, the tangled hair, the ripped dress. Her lips pursed into a line, not of disapproval, but of concern. "You've got to get out of those clothes my dear. " she said softly. "And warm up before you're sick.".
I wanted to complain, say I was fine, but my teeth trembled before I could even string the words together. My silence was sufficient response.
She led me to a small bathroom at the end of the hall. The tiles were cracked in places, the mirror slightly steamy with age, but when she turned on the tap, the air was filled with steam. The sound of running water was like music. She draped a towel over the counter, smooth but worn at the edges from years of use, and handed me a frayed- through nightgown with a lingering scent of soap and sunlight.
"Slow down sweetie. " she said to me. "I'll fix you something hot to eat."
Once the door was closed behind her, I stood there for a second, staring at myself in the mirror. My face was foreign to me— unrecognizable. Mud smeared all over my cheeks, mascara smeared into shadows under my eyes, hair torn into wet ropes. Raw, red welts surrounded my wrists, already beginning to swell.
I looked like a ghost of myself.
Not a bride. Not an heiress. Not Tracy Alcott.
Just a broken girl waiting in a stranger's bathroom.
I walked in the water, and the warmth stung my eyes. It seared all over— my wounds, my skin, even my head where the hood had irritated it. But as the filth washed away, I could feel the layers of the night peeling away from me, leaving me raw but cleaner. I scrubbed at my skin as if I could scrub away everything— the ropes, the rain, the betrayal. But no matter how I scrubbed, it was still within me.
When I came out, covered with the towel and dressed in the frayed nightgown, I felt younger. Smaller. Like a child again.
Mrs. Callahan had placed a plate on the small dining table— a steaming bowl of soup with a few slices of bread aside. The smell hit me at once— garlic, onion, something herby. My belly let out such a loud rumble that my cheeks burned with embarrassment.
"Sit down sweetie. " she told me gently, nodding toward the chair. "Eat it hot."
I settled into the chair, shaky hands grasping the spoon. The initial taste brought me to a standstill.
It was home.
Not my whole house, not the house or the money or the decadence. No. It was more like a single isolated memory— my mother in the kitchen, apron tied around her waist, humming softly as she made a plain broth when I had a cold. I could almost feel her voice, smell her perfume mingling with the soup.
The hurt that followed was unbearable.
Tears stung at my eyes, but I gritted my teeth and forced the food down. I spooned it silently, spoon by spoon, although each bite was heavy with recollections I didn't want. My throat burned, not from the heat, but from the ball of grief stuck in there.
Mrs. Callahan didn't pressure me. She simply sat across from me at the table, drinking tea, regarding me with a softness that made me want to cry even harder.
Minutes later, I set the spoon down with shaking hands when the bowl was empty. My belly was finally warm after all those hours, but my chest was colder than ever before.
"Thank you ma'am. " I whispered, so softly that I could barely hear it myself. My voice cracked on the words.
She only nodded. "You should rest now."
She took me to a room. The bedroom she led me into was small, barely large enough to accommodate a bed and a dresser. The blanket was quilted, constructed of pieces of old fabrics that were worn through, but it was softer than any silk I had ever purchased. The pillow smelled of lavender, similar to the sachets the corners of her house held.
After she showed me the room, she left. When she shut the door behind her, I huddled into the bed, wrapping the blanket tightly around me.
I ought to have felt safe. I ought to have felt grateful. I ought to have felt human again.
But I only felt emptiness.
The warmth of the soup, the softness of the quilt, the quiet of the house— all shut up against an empty place inside me that nothing could fill. I recalled the bitter words of my mother on the radio, the imaginative look of my sister in my veil, the stillness of my father.
And I cried softly into the pillow, the sound brushed away by the fabric.
I cried until my body hurt, until my chest hurt, until the tears dried. I cried until all there was left was the hollow, painful truth:
I had a roof over my head.
But I no longer had a home.
And as the night dragged on, sleep finally claimed me— not gently, but like a thief pulling me into a darkness where even dreams felt too heavy.
I fell asleep filled with emptiness, betrayal, and sadness… and the haunting question of whether I'd ever belong anywhere again.