The silence was louder in the daylight.
Esme moved through the wreckage of her home like a shadow, light-footed, as if sound might startle the ghosts that had taken root in the corners of her bedroom. Her hands trembled, even when she tried to will them still. She didn't speak—not even when Liam offered to help, his voice low and patient in the doorway.
She had nodded once. That was enough.
The small suitcase on the bed barely fit the essentials. A few changes of clothes. Her ledger. The wrapped stems of night-blooming cereus she'd harvested that morning before opening the shop. She thought they'd make her feel grounded—connected to something living. But they looked out of place now, crushed between fabric and perfume-scented scarves that no longer smelled like anything familiar.
She knelt beside the splintered cedar chest at the foot of the bed.
The lid hung open at an odd angle where the hinges had been snapped. Inside, her mother's things were a jumbled storm: torn silk scarves, snapped strands of beads, broken pins that had once rested in Helena's raven hair like jeweled fireflies.
Esme reached for the gold hairpin first.
It was bent, the delicate filigree crushed into itself, but she still recognized it. The shape. The faint trace of her mother's perfume, lingering beneath the dust and violence. She wrapped it in a handkerchief. Carefully. Reverently. As if it were a sacred thing.
A sob rose in her throat, but she swallowed it before it could bloom.
Liam stayed at the threshold. Watching. Waiting. He didn't ask questions. He didn't speak.
She was grateful for that.
——————————————————
The ride was quiet.
Esme sat curled against the passenger door, her fingers resting lightly on the handle, though she didn't intend to open it. Her hand trembled once, then again, and she quickly drew it back to her lap.
Liam kept his eyes on the road. His knuckles were white around the steering wheel, his jaw locked tight. But he didn't break the silence. Not once.
There was nothing to say that didn't feel like spilling into a wound.
Outside the window, the city blurred into twilight. Streetlamps flickered past like stars falling sideways. It was too early for night, but the heaviness in her chest made it feel like midnight had already arrived—and she was still awake inside it.
The radio was off. The car hummed softly, a steady drone that gave her something to anchor herself to. She focused on the sound of tires against asphalt. The tick of the turn signal. The subtle, rhythmic exhale of Liam's breath.
Every beat of silence between them said more than words ever could.
——————————————————
When the car finally slowed in front of a brick building near the waterfront, Esme stirred.
Liam put the car in park but didn't move to get out.
He glanced at her, his eyes unreadable. "I'll get your bag."
She nodded, wordless.
He opened her door first, as if unsure whether she'd step out on her own. Esme hesitated, staring up at the unfamiliar facade. The windows glowed warm amber. A jacket was draped across the back of a chair just visible through the sheer curtain of the second-floor window. She didn't know why she noticed that.
Maybe because it told her something about him.
Real. Human. Lonely.
Liam didn't rush her. He waited, standing a few feet away with her bag in hand, his shoulders tense but his posture open. He didn't prod. Didn't speak. Just waited for her to decide.
After a long moment, Esme drew in a slow breath and stepped onto the curb.
Her legs felt too light beneath her, as if they might vanish with the wrong step. But she moved forward anyway, past the wrought-iron railing and up the stairs, trailing him silently. Her eyes scanned everything—the chipped brick, the mail slot with his name barely legible, the slight scratch on the doorframe. She noticed the details like she always did when she was afraid.
He unlocked the door.
Pushed it open.
Then stood back and looked at her.
No invitation. Just a waiting.
Esme looked past him into the apartment.
It was neat, but not lifeless. Shelves full of books lined the wall across from the entry, mismatched spines worn from use. A half-drunk cup of coffee sat cold on the kitchen counter, its ring etched onto a paper-strewn notebook. A record player sat in the corner beneath a poster of a jazz musician she vaguely recognized. The scent of old pages and pine lingered in the air.
She hesitated in the doorway.
Then took one step in.
Then another.
She didn't look at him, not yet.
Instead, she walked past the threshold, past the hallway, toward the bookshelves. Her eyes roamed over them, drinking in the titles. Mysteries. Poetry. Law journals. A surprising number of botanical guides.
And then she saw it—the jacket.
His jacket.
Draped over the back of a chair, worn and soft and familiar in a way that surprised her. It was the same one he'd wrapped around her shoulders that night, when she was shaking too much to hold herself upright. The same one that smelled faintly like cedar and clean soap.
Her hand reached for it, hovered, then fell back to her side.
She turned around slowly.
Met his eyes across the room.
"You live alone," she said quietly.
Her voice felt too loud in the stillness of the space.
Liam nodded. "Yeah."
A pause stretched between them.
Esme let her gaze wander the room once more, then walked farther in. Not like she belonged—but like she had no choice.
She stopped in the center of the living room and let out a slow, tired breath.
"I won't stay long," she murmured.
"You can stay as long as you need," he said.
She didn't answer.
But she didn't leave either.