Elara
The paper bag crinkled beneath my arm as I walked, each step echoing against the corridor’s silence. “Scones,” it read in cursive across the top, bold and gentle, just like my boss’s voice when she told me, “Your job will always be here, Elara, if you’re ever ready to come back.”
I wasn’t sure if I was ready.
My fingers tightened around the bag. It smelled faintly of clove and orange glaze, the scent rising each time I exhaled too hard. I didn’t even like scones. But I wanted to remember what it felt like to make choices, small or not.
My heart thudded. The closer I got to the apartment, the louder it became. Dorian could be home.
I swallowed, glancing over my shoulder like I always did now. No one. No footsteps. No shadow. Still, I walked faster.
I hated how my palms got clam
