Chapter 15
2070 Words
✨The First Door I Opened Alone✨
Flora Pov
Flora stood outside the boardinghouse longer than necessary.
The building rose in front of her like a question she wasn’t sure she was allowed to answer. Three stories tall, brick darkened by age and weather, its windows unevenly spaced as if added without planning. A faded sign hung crooked above the door, the paint cracked so badly the name was barely legible. It didn’t look welcoming. It didn’t look cruel either.
It looked indifferent.
That frightened her most.
She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder for the fourth time and wiped her palms against her skirt. Her heart was beating too fast, loud enough she was certain anyone nearby could hear it. She glanced down the street—half-paved road, a row of small shops that looked tired rather than closed, a man sweeping dust from a storefront like he’d been doing it his entire life and would still be doing it tomorrow.
No one was watching her.
That should have helped.
It didn’t.
Flora swallowed and stepped forward.
The door creaked when she pushed it open, a sound that felt accusatory, as if the building itself wanted to announce her arrival. The air inside was warm and smelled faintly of cooked onions, old wood, and something medicinal she couldn’t place.
She froze just inside the doorway.
The lobby was small. A wooden desk sat to the left, scarred and cluttered with papers. A narrow staircase climbed upward, its railing polished smooth from years of hands gripping it. Somewhere deeper inside the building, a radio played softly—static, then music, then static again.
Behind the desk sat a woman with tired eyes and a pen tucked behind her ear. She looked up slowly, her gaze sliding over Flora in a way that made Flora feel like she was being weighed.
“Yes?” the woman said.
Flora opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Her throat tightened, panic blooming fast and hot in her chest. She hadn’t rehearsed this part enough. She hadn’t planned for the sound of her own voice to feel so dangerous.
“I—I need—” She stopped, swallowed, tried again. “A room.”
The woman’s expression barely changed.
“Short or long stay?”
Flora blinked. That hadn’t occurred to her.
“I… long?” she said, unsure.
The woman nodded, already reaching for a ledger. “Money first.”
Flora’s hands shook as she reached into her bag. Too fast. Too clumsy.
The bag tipped.
Everything spilled out at once.
Books fluttered to the floor. The folded map slid free, landing near the woman’s shoes. A comb, a dress, a notebook, a pencil—pieces of her life scattered across the lobby floor like proof she didn’t belong anywhere yet.
“Oh—oh no,” Flora breathed, heat rushing to her face.
She dropped to her knees, scrambling to gather everything at once, hands moving too quickly, knocking things farther away instead of closer.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”
A pair of shoes stepped into her vision.
Not the receptionist’s.
Different. Polished, but worn at the edges. A man’s shoes.
Before she could look up, someone crouched beside her.
“Careful,” a voice said. Calm. Low. Amused—not unkindly. “You’re fighting gravity. Gravity always wins.”
Flora froze.
Then she looked up.
He was close. Too close for comfort, too close for safety, too close for her heart to be doing what it was doing. Dark hair, neatly cut. Sharp features softened by an expression that suggested he found the situation mildly entertaining rather than embarrassing.
She thought he had disappeared.
He picked up the map gently, unfolding corner curling in his fingers.
“This looks important,” he said, handing it back to her.
She snatched it a little too quickly. “Thank you. I—yes. It is. Important. Very.”
Her face burned. She shoved the rest of her things back into her bag haphazardly, knocking her own knuckles against the floor in her rush.
The man smiled.
Not wide. Not predatory. Just… there.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded too fast. “Yes. No. I mean—yes.
I’m fine. Just—new.”
“I could tell.”
That made her frown. “How?”
“Your bag exploded.”
She huffed despite herself, a short, breathless sound she hadn’t expected. “That happens when I’m nervous.”
“Then you must be very nervous.”
She realized then that she was still kneeling on the floor, staring at a stranger like he’d just caught her doing something illegal. She stood abruptly, nearly smacking her head on the desk in the process.
The man straightened too, stepping back politely.
“I’m Nasir,” he said.
“Flora,” she replied automatically, then immediately wondered why she’d given him her name so easily.
The receptionist cleared her throat pointedly.
Nasir stepped aside. “Good luck,” he said softly, then added, “You’ll be fine.”
She wasn’t sure why those words lodged so deeply in her chest.
The room was smaller than she expected and larger than she feared.
A narrow bed against one wall. A table beneath the window. A single chair. The walls were painted a dull cream, chipped in places where time had grown impatient. The window looked out over the road, where a single street lamp flickered like it couldn’t decide whether it wanted to stay on.
Flora closed the door behind her and leaned against it.
Her legs shook.
She slid down until she was sitting on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, breath coming too fast, too shallow.
She was really here.
No one followed her.
No one yelled her name.
No one told her she was wrong.
The silence was deafening.
After a while—she wasn’t sure how long—she forced herself to stand. She unpacked slowly, deliberately, placing each item as if order might keep her from unraveling. The map went on the table. The money beneath it. Her dress folded with care.
She sat on the bed and stared at the wall.
Her hometown rose unbidden in her mind—tight streets, houses pressed close together, every sound carrying, every movement noticed. The place where she’d learned to walk quietly, speak carefully, exist softly.
This town was different.
Here, the buildings were spaced farther apart, like they weren’t sure they wanted to touch.
Roads ended abruptly, as if no one had decided where they should go next. It wasn’t thriving—but it was breathing.
She pressed her palm to her chest.
She was alone.
The kind of alone that didn’t come with instructions.
The kind that made room for fear—and something else she wasn’t ready to name.
Her thoughts drifted back, unwillingly, to the lobby. To Nasir’s voice. His steady hands. The way he’d looked at her—not like she was fragile, not like she was invisible.
It unsettled her.
She lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as the light outside dimmed.
Freedom, she realized, was terrifying.
And for the first time in her life, it was hers.
Night did not arrive gently.
It crept in through the thin curtains, pressing itself against the glass until the room felt smaller, tighter, as if darkness had weight. Flora lay on the bed with her shoes still on, hands folded stiffly over her stomach, listening.
The boardinghouse had changed voices.
During the day it had murmured—footsteps, doors opening and closing, the scrape of chairs. Now it spoke in fragments. A laugh too loud from somewhere below. A cough through the wall to her left. The low, unmistakable creak of the staircase bearing someone’s weight.
She counted each sound.
One step. Two. Three.
The steps paused outside her door.
Her breath stopped.
She lay perfectly still, eyes open, heart slamming so hard she was certain it could be heard through the wood. She stared at the door, at the thin line of light beneath it, waiting for a shadow to pass.
Nothing happened.
After a long moment, the footsteps continued down the hall.
Only then did she inhale.
Her chest ached with it.
She sat up slowly, careful not to make the bed creak. The room smelled different at night—cooler, faintly metallic, layered with unfamiliar lives. She crossed to the window on bare feet, peeking through the gap in the curtain.
The streetlamp outside buzzed softly. Two men stood near it, one smoking, the other laughing at something Flora couldn’t hear. A woman passed them, her heels clicking sharply, head held high like armor.
Flora pulled back from the window.
In her hometown, night had been a warning. It meant locked doors, lowered voices, obedience. Here, night felt looser. More dangerous because of it.
A sudden thump from the room above made her flinch so hard she gasped.
“Stop,” she whispered to herself. “Stop being scared.”
But fear didn’t listen to reason. Fear listened to memory.
She moved back to the bed and sat on its edge, hugging her arms around herself. Her thoughts wandered where she didn’t want them to go—back to the house she’d fled, to the sounds she’d learned to dread. Raised voices. Footsteps that meant punishment.
Silence that meant worse.
Her throat tightened.
She reached for the map on the table and unfolded it again, even though she knew it by heart now. Floyd’s handwriting steadied her. Proof that someone had thought about her safety. That someone believed she deserved it.
A knock sounded.
Sharp. Close.
At her door.
Her blood went cold.
She was sure this is it.
She froze, every muscle locked, eyes fixed on the wood in front of her. The knock came again—firmer this time.
“Flora?”
Her name.
Her heart leapt painfully.
“Yes?” she answered, her voice barely more than breath.
“It’s Nasir.”
Relief and fear collided so violently it left her dizzy.
She stood, hesitated, then crossed the room on unsteady legs. She opened the door only a crack, chain still fastened.
“Yes?” she repeated.
Nasir stood in the hallway, hands visible, posture relaxed. The dim light softened his features, casting shadows that made him look older, sharper. Serious.
“I thought you might want this,” he said, holding out a small paper bag.
She blinked. “What is it?”
“Food. The kitchen closes early. You looked… overwhelmed.”
That was an understatement.
She unhooked the chain and opened the door fully, stepping back to let him pass the bag to her. Their fingers brushed briefly.
Her pulse skidded.
“Thank you,” she said, genuinely. “I didn’t know—”
“No one ever does the first night.”
That made her laugh softly, then stop, embarrassed by the sound. “Is it always this… loud?”
He smiled faintly. “This is quiet.”
That didn’t help.
She hesitated, then asked, “Did you need something else?”
“No,” he said, and meant it. “Just wanted to make sure you were alright.”
She nodded, unsure what to do with the warmth that settled in her chest at his words.
“Goodnight, Flora.”
“Goodnight.”
She closed the door gently and leaned her forehead against it once he was gone.
Her hands were shaking again—but differently this time.
She opened the bag. Bread. Cheese. An apple.
Simple things. Thoughtful things. She ate slowly, sitting on the bed, savoring the normalcy of it.
When she lay down again, she kept the lamp on.
The boardinghouse continued to breathe around her—doors, murmurs, the distant hum of life she wasn’t yet part of. Fear still hovered, ready to pounce at every creak, every shift in the dark.
But threaded through it now was something else.
The memory of a calm voice. A steady presence. A name spoken gently.
Flora pulled the blanket up to her chin and stared at the ceiling until sleep finally claimed her—not peacefully, but honestly.
And when it did, it carried her into dreams where she was running—not away this time, but forward, toward something she couldn’t yet see.
- Writer
