Brooklyn's morning rush was a symphony of chaos honking horns, barking dogs, and coffee-fueled conversations. The small corner café on Myrtle Avenue smelled of fresh bagels and rain-soaked pavement. Inside, Kara stood behind the counter, apron dusted with flour, curls pinned up in a messy bun, and sleeves rolled to her elbows.
"Mama!" a small voice rang from the booth near the window.
Zia.
Five years old, her daughter was everything Kara wasn't unapologetically curious, loud, and bursting with mischief. With caramel curls, stormy gray eyes, and a grin that melted even the grumpiest customers, Zia was the center of Kara's universe.
"Finish your pancake," Kara called, slipping a croissant into a bag. "You have dance class in an hour."
"But I'm drawing us a unicorn house!" Zia pouted, brandishing a pink crayon.
Kara laughed despite the ache in her chest. Every day with Zia was a gift but also a reminder. Of what she left behind. Of who Zia's father was.
Xavier Blackthorn.
The name still echoed like thunder in her bones.
He didn't know about Zia. Couldn't. Kara had fled New York before the first trimester ended, hiding in small towns until Zia was born in Chicago. Her only link to him now was the fire in her daughter's eyes and the sharp jawline she never inherited from Kara.
Kara had sworn to keep Zia safe. Which meant keeping her hidden.
Until today.
The bell above the café door jingled. Kara glanced up, smiling. Then her smile faltered.
Standing in the doorway, rain still glistening on his coat, was Xavier Blackthorn.
Her breath caught.
He looked the shad no, more dangerous. Still tall, still commanding. But his face held new shadows. And in his eyes, no recognition. Not a flicker.
He didn't remember her.
He stepped forward slowly, studying the menu. "Do you serve oat milk cappuccinos?"
Kara blinked. Her voice didn't come immediately. Then she found it. "We do. To go?"
He nodded. "Please."
She turned to the espresso machine, hands shaking. Five years. Five years of silence, and he walks in like a stranger asking for oat milk.
Zia peeked over the booth.
"Mama, is that a policeman?"
Xavier turned at the sound of the small voice.
Kara's heart dropped.
His gaze landed on Zia.
Something shifted in his expression.
Recognition?
No. Curiosity.
Zia tilted her head, then offered him a gummy smile. "You look like my drawing!"
Kara almost dropped the milk jug.
Xavier blinked. "Do I?"
Zia nodded. "You got the same hair. And mean eyes. But nice. Kind of."
He chuckled.
Kara's chest ached.
"She's imaginative," she said quickly. "Sorry about that."
"No need to apologize," Xavier said, still looking at Zia. Then back to Kara. "You look familiar. Have we met?"
Kara froze. The cappuccino hissed behind her. She turned off the machine, handed him the cup. "You probably just have one of those faces."
He narrowed his eyes.
"Maybe."
He paid in cash. No name. No card. No hint of who he used to be to her. Or what they once shared.
Then he turned to leave.
"Nice café," he said.
Kara nodded. "Thanks."
The door jingled again.
Gone.
Zia tugged her apron. "Mama, why was your face weird?"
Kara knelt beside her daughter, pulled her close.
"No reason, sweetheart. Just a ghost walking through."
Zia frowned. "I liked him. He feels like the moon."
Kara blinked. "What do you mean?"
Zia shrugged. "He's sad. Like in my dream. The one where the man loses the ring and can't find the girl again."
Kara's skin prickled.
Zia had never said that before.
And Kara didn't believe in fate.
But in that moment, holding her child, she wondered if ghosts really stayed buried.
Because Xavier Blackthorn had walked back into her life.
And Zia? Zia was already remembering things that never happened.
Or maybe they had.