The bus ride home felt like a slow bleed. Noel didn't cry. Not yet. She stared out the window, watching the city blur into dusk—corner stores closing, porch lights flickering on, kids dragging backpacks down cracked sidewalks. Her body moved on autopilot. Off the bus. Up the block. Past the mural with the faded wings. Through the rusted gate. Into the house her parents left behind.
She locked the door behind her and leaned against it, forehead pressed to the wood. The silence inside was thick. No violin. No hum of the factory. Just her breath, shallow and uneven.
She kicked off her boots, peeled off her hoodie, and walked to the bathroom. The light above the mirror buzzed softly as she flicked it on. Pale yellow flooded the room, casting everything in a warm, nostalgic glow.
Noel stripped slowly, each layer heavier than the last. Her leggings to her skin. Her hoodie smelled faintly of flour and sweat. She stepped into the shower and turned the knob until steam curled around her like a ghost.
The water was hot. Almost too hot. But she didn't flinch.
Her skin—floral white, soft and freckled—gleamed under the light like Blue Bunny homemade vanilla ice cream, smooth and untouched. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, damp at the edges from the mist. She stood there, letting the water run down her back, her shoulders, her spine. Her fingers trembled.
Then she slammed her right fist against the light pink tile.
The sound echoed.
"WHY THE HELL YOU DIDN'T SAVE, NOEL?" she screamed, voice cracking. "WHY DID YOU BE RECKLESS WITH YOUR FINANCES?"
Her sobs came fast, raw, and unfiltered. She sank to her knees in the tub, water pooling around her thighs. Her shoulders shook as she cried into her palms, the steam wrapping her like a blanket she didn't ask for.
She thought of the $700.00 car note due in two days. The empty savings account. The factory gate flashing red. Marlene's tears. The man with five kids. The woman with thirty-five years. The AI. The robots. The silence.
She rocked back and forth, arms wrapped around herself.
"I tried," she whispered. "I really tried."
But trying hadn't been enough.
Noel sat on the edge of her bed in a towel, hair damp and clinging to her neck. The house was quiet, but not peaceful. It felt like it was holding its breath with her.
She stared at the wall. At the mural her father painted. The vines. The stars. The girl with grey eyes.
She didn't feel like that girl anymore.
She felt like a ghost in her own life.
Her phone buzzed once. A notification from her bank. Balance: $0.00.
She didn't open it. She didn't need to.
She lay back on the bed, towel still wrapped around her, and stared at the ceiling. The fan spun slowly, casting shadows like clock hands.
She thought about selling the car. About asking her cousin for more help. About applying for jobs she wasn't qualified for. About the way the world didn't care how hard you worked—only how much you could produce.
She thought about her parents. About how they'd built this house with overtime and prayer. About how they'd always told her to save for rainy days.
It was pouring now.
Noel got up, walked to the kitchen, and opened the fridge. A half-empty bottle of orange juice. A takeout box with two fries. She closed it again.
She sat on the floor, back against the cabinets, knees pulled to her chest.
"I don't know what to do," she whispered.
She hugged herself tightly, as if her own arms could hold her together.
Tears streamed down her cheeks again, silent this time. No fists. No screams. Just the quiet ache of someone who'd been strong for too long.
The city outside kept moving. But inside the house on Ashland and 43rd, Noel sat in the dark, trying to remember how to hope.
The next morning.
The sun rose slow and reluctant over Ashland and 43rd, casting a pale orange light across the cracked sidewalks and rusted fences. Inside the house, Noel lay still beneath a thin blanket, eyes open, staring at the ceiling fan as it spun in lazy circles. She hadn't slept. Not really. Her body had rested, but her mind had paced all night.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
She finally sat up, her joints stiff, her throat dry. The towel from last night still lay crumpled on the floor. Her phone blinked once—no new messages. No job offers. No miracles.
She walked barefoot to the kitchen, opened the fridge again. Same orange juice. Same takeout box. She poured a glass, took one sip, and set it down. Her stomach twisted.
She wandered to the living room, where her father's vinyls lined the shelf. She ran her fingers across the spines—Miles Davis, Nina Simone, Coltrane. She pulled one out, placed it on the turntable, and let the needle drop.
A soft jazz melody filled the room. It felt like memory.
She sat on the couch, legs tucked under her, and stared at the mural again. The vines. The stars. The girl with grey eyes.
"I don't even know who I am anymore," she whispered.
Around noon, Noel heard the mail slot clink. She didn't rush. She didn't expect anything. But eventually, she walked to the door and picked up the small stack—ads, a bill, and a plain white envelope with no return address.
She opened it slowly.
Inside was a folded piece of paper. Typed. No signature.
> "You are not forgotten.
> The house remembers.
> Look beneath the floorboards in your mother's room."
Noel blinked. Her heart thudded once, hard.
She walked upstairs, past the mural, into her mother's old room. It still smelled faintly of lavender and rose oil. The bed was stripped. The dresser untouched. She knelt beside the far wall and ran her fingers along the floorboards.
One was loose.
She pried it up with trembling hands.
Inside was a small metal box.
She opened it.
Inside: a stack of old photos, a velvet pouch, and a folded note in her mother's handwriting.
> "For when the world forgets you,
> remember who you are.
> You are my daughter.
> You are strong.
> You are not alone."
Noel pressed the note to her chest, tears spilling again—but softer this time. Not from despair. From something else. Something like hope.
She didn't know what came next.
But she knew she had to keep going.