Before She Knew

Elora's POV Elora I learned early on that the city sounded different after sunset, and I loved it for that. During the day, everything blurred together. Voices overlapped endlessly. Traffic roared without pause. Footsteps crowded the sidewalks. Even my thoughts competed with one another, piling up until I could not tell which one deserved attention first. At night, the sounds separated. Each one stood alone. Footsteps became deliberate instead of rushed. Engines hummed instead of screamed. Distant laughter softened into something almost private. The city exhaled, and for the first time all day, so did I. I walked with my tote bag slung over my shoulder, its familiar weight tugging gently at my arm. Inside it was everything I needed for the evening. My apron. My keys. A paperback novel I never had time to read. A charger. Small, ordinary things that kept my life moving forward. Once upon a time, I believed my life would follow a perfect plan. I had built it carefully in my head. College without struggle. A career that paid well and did not drain me. A future that unfolded the way it was supposed to or at least the way I imagined, steady and predictable. I believed in certainty back then. In ease. In the idea that doing everything right would be enough. I learned quickly that the world did not work that way. There was a time when my family of four felt whole. Ordinary in a way that was comforting. My mother worked long hours but always found time to ask about my day, even when exhaustion weighed on her face. My father’s presence filled the house, grounding and reassuring. And Lara...my sweet little sister, followed me everywhere. All curiosity and laughter. Her small hand always reaching for mine. Then came the car accident. A late night call. A crash. Words spoken quietly and too quickly to understand. I remembered standing beside my mother, watching her mouth move as she cried and screamed, but hearing nothing at all. The silence was complete. Suffocating. It swallowed everything until the world felt empty. Lara did not survive. The impact had been on her side. She died on the spot. My father lived. Sometimes I wondered if that was the cruelest part. Grief hollowed our home in the months that followed. It seeped into the walls, into the air, into the quiet spaces between words. My mother grew ill from the shock. Her body gave in where her heart already had. Doctors spoke carefully, using gentle terms that could not soften the reality. She retired early and never fully returned to herself. My father unraveled more slowly. He numbed himself with alcohol and silence. With endless guilt that replayed itself every night. He blamed his hands on the wheel. His failure to be careful enough. Eventually, he lost his job. Debts followed soon after. Stability vanished. And with it, the life I had imagined slipped quietly away. Now I was a college student burdened with loans and responsibility. I overworked myself, juggling part time jobs to make ends meet while helping care for my mother and myself. Dreams became obligations. Hope became something smaller, something fragile that I carried carefully. I pulled my hair into a loose bun as I walked, welcoming the cool breeze against my neck. The campus grounds faded behind me, replaced by familiar streets. I adjusted the strap of my tote bag and glanced up at the sky, already dark above the buildings. My phone vibrated. Evening shift. Coffee shop. Same as always. I sighed softly and slipped the phone back into my bag. I took the long way, like I usually did. Not because it was faster. It never was. But because it was quieter. Streetlights flickered on one by one, casting pale circles onto the sidewalk. The silence gave me room to think. About life. About my life. About everything I was trying to hold together. Halfway down the street, a sudden awareness washed over me. I was being watched. I slowed my steps and lifted my phone, pretending to scroll through it. The street behind me stretched empty and calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that felt rehearsed. I checked my wristwatch. 7:28 p.m. Two minutes before my shift started. I picked up my pace, catching my reflection in a darkened window. My shoulders were tense. My expression tight. You are tired, I told myself. That is all. A black sedan rolled past me, unhurried. Its windows were tinted too dark to see inside. Its engine was quiet, controlled. Cars passed all the time, yet something about its pace made my chest tighten. It did not rush. It did not slow down. It simply moved. I did not realize I had been holding my breath until it turned the corner and disappeared from view. By the time I reached the café, my shoulders ached from the tension. Warmth greeted me as soon as I stepped inside, the bell above the door chiming softly. “Hey, Elora,” my coworker called. “Right on time as always.” “Habit,” I replied, managing a smile. The shift passed in a familiar rhythm. Orders. Smiles. Quiet conversations that asked nothing from me. I liked it that way. Predictable. Safe. Behind the counter, the world felt manageable. Still, near the end of the night, I found myself glancing toward the window more often than necessary. Half expecting to see something. Or someone. There was nothing there. Yet the feeling refused to leave. When my shift ended, I clocked out and stepped back into the night, pulling my cardigan tighter around myself. The street looked the same as before. Empty. Indifferent. Somewhere down the street, a car engine started. I paused, my hand tightening around the strap of my tote bag. The sound stopped as quickly as it had begun, leaving the street too quiet. I forced myself to keep walking, but my heart still thudded against my ribs. Whatever it was, it had noticed me. I could feel it watching even now.