When Clara reached Elena’s apartment, she didn’t knock.
Her hands were trembling—numb from the cold, stiff from the tension knotted through her veins like steel wires. The brass key she kept on a thin chain around her neck felt unusually heavy now, like a burden instead of a lifeline. Her fingers fumbled, but muscle memory did the rest. The lock clicked open, and she stepped inside quietly.
The door shut behind her with a soft click, muffling the noise of the outside world—the honks, the wind, the echo of her own heartbeat thudding in her ears. The apartment welcomed her with a cocoon of warmth, a heady mix of garlic, simmering tomatoes, and fresh basil. It was the scent of Elena’s cooking, of familiarity, of safety.
But Clara felt none of it.
She stood just inside the doorway, her coa
