Clara moved into a small apartment downtown — sunlight in every window, the scent of paint and tea filling the corners. She started teaching again part-time, her hands steady enough to guide a brush. The scars remained, invisible and otherwise, but she carried them with quiet pride. Then one afternoon, months later, a knock sounded on her door.
When she opened it, Evan stood there. He looked smaller somehow — not physically, but worn. His hair was thinner, his shirt creased. The confidence he used to wear like armor was gone. He smiled awkwardly, holding a coffee in his hand like a peace offering.