Adrian's apartment smelled like warmth — roasted coffee, old paper, and something faintly sweet that reminded Lucky of childhood. Days began to blur together. She would wake up to the sound of rain on the window, the soft hum of the city outside, and for a fleeting moment she almost forgot she had died once.
Adrian treated her gently. Too gently. He asked nothing about her past, never questioned where she came from. Instead, he taught her small things: how to use the stove, how to cross the street, how to talk to strangers without fear. He laughed when she mispronounced words and praised her clumsy attempts to "fit in."
It felt like safety. It felt like a new beginning.
Sometimes, though, there were moments when his eyes lingered too long — when she caught him watching her reflection in the window instead of her face. There was a softness there, but not the kind that comforted her. It was heavier, harder to name.
One evening, she asked, "Why are you helping me?"
He smiled, his hands around a cup of coffee. "You remind me of someone I once lost."
Lucky nodded, unsure what to say. She wanted to believe it was kindness. She needed to. The world outside was too cold, too fast — she couldn't survive it alone.
At night, when she lay on the couch, staring at the cracked ceiling, she told herself she was safe. That people could be good.
But deep down, in a quiet corner of her heart, something small whispered: You've mistaken comfort for care. And care for love.
She didn't listen. Not yet