Zeba Heather

Chapter 3

Zeba did not sleep much that night.

The couch sagged in the middle and smelled faintly of old perfume, alcohol and cigarettes, and every time she shifted, one of its springs pressed sharply into her side. The room never went completely quiet. Somewhere outside, cars passed at irregular intervals, their tires hissing against wet ground. A door slammed nearby, followed by laughter that rose and then faded. Inside the room, someone coughed and sneezed in their sleep. Another person muttered something unintelligible, then turned over with a rustle of fabric.

…

Zeba lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the paint with her eyes. She had not expected comfort. Comfort felt like something that belonged to other people, people with rooms of their own and doors that locked from the inside. Still, her body ached in a way that made it hard to stay still, and the unfamiliarity of the place kept her alert long after exhaustion should have engulfed her.

At some point, Maris passed through the room quietly, carrying a glass of water. She paused when she noticed Zeba awake and set the glass on the floor beside the couch. She did not say anything, just gave a small nod, as though acknowledging a shared understanding that sleep was not guaranteed here. Zeba watched her go, listening to the soft click of the door as she disappeared into another room.

The morning arrived in the twinkle of an eye.

The light crept in through the window, dull and gray, filtered through grime and a torn curtain that was barely useful. Zeba sat up slowly, her back was stiff, her mouth dry. For a moment, she forgot where she was, her body bracing itself for the sound of Ms. Harlan’s voice or the sharp clap of hands demanding attention. When none came, the memory of the previous night settled back into place.

She swung her legs over the edge of the couch and stood, unsure what she was expected to do. The room looked different in daylight. Smaller. More worn-out. The couch’s fabric was torn in places, and the coffee table had one leg shorter than the others, propped up with a folded piece of cardboard. Empty cups sat along the window, some with lipstick stains and some without.

Tasha was already awake, sitting at the table with her phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She glanced up when Zeba moved. “Bathroom’s through there,” she said, pointing toward a narrow hallway. “Don’t use the sink on the left, it leaks.”

Zeba murmured thanks and made her way down the hall. The bathroom mirror was cracked, splitting her reflection into three uneven fragments. She studied herself for a moment, really looked. Her hair was tangled, she had dark circles, her face thinner than she remembered it being. She splashed water on her face, ignoring the way her hands shook slightly, and tried to smooth her hair back with her fingers. It did not help much, but it was something.

When she returned, Selina was there, sitting in the same chair Tasha had occupied the night before. She had changed clothes, her hair pulled back and her expression was sharper in the daylight. She looked up as Zeba approached, her gaze lingering just long enough to feel deliberate.

“You can stay for now,” Selina said.

Zeba paused. “For now?”

Selina leaned back in her chair. “This isn’t a shelter. This isn’t charity. You stay, you don’t get in the way. You listen. You don’t wander off without telling someone and you don’t repeat what you hear in this room.”

Zeba nodded slowly. “I wasn’t planning to.”

“Planning doesn’t mean much,” Selina replied. “Doing does.”

Maris emerged from one of the rooms carrying a bag of bread rolls. She tore one in half and handed it to Zeba, then handed another to Tasha. The bread was soft, still warm from wherever it had come from, and Zeba had to force herself not to eat too quickly. She focused on chewing slowly, on breathing evenly, on not looking like someone who had not eaten properly in days.

“You look younger in the daylight,” Tasha remarked, glancing at her.

Zeba stiffened.

“Not a bad thing,” Tasha added quickly. “Just means you’ve still got time.”

Time for what, Zeba wondered, but she did not ask.

The day unfolded in fragments. People came and went. Another woman arrived midmorning, tall and quiet, with dark circles under her eyes and a jacket too thin for the weather. Selina spoke to her briefly in a low voice, then handed her some cash. The woman nodded once and disappeared again. Zeba watched from the couch, and she stayed quiet.

By afternoon, the room smelled faintly of cleaning spray and coffee. Maris wiped down surfaces, her movements were calm and almost domestic. Tasha changed outfits twice, pacing the room while scrolling through her phone, muttering under her breath. Selina disappeared for long stretches, returning with her jaw tight and her eyes alert.

No one asked Zeba to do anything. That unsettled her more than being ordered around would have. She sat, notebook on her lap, listening, watching and learning. She noticed how Selina’s voice changed depending on who she spoke to, how Maris always positioned herself near the door, how Tasha laughed loudly but went quiet when she thought no one was paying attention.

Late in the afternoon, Selina stopped in front of Zeba. “What’s in the notebook?”

Zeba hesitated, then opened it, flipping to a page filled with sketches of streets and buildings. “Maps,” she said. “Places I remember.”

Selina studied the page, her expression was unreadable. “You’re observant.”

“I have to be.”

Selina closed the notebook gently and handed it back. “That can be useful. Or it can get you into trouble. Depends on how you use it.”

…

As evening approached, the atmosphere shifted. The women moved quickly, their conversations quieter and their gestures were sharper. Zeba sensed it without needing it to be explained. This was when the city changed its tone, when the streets demanded different things.

Maris pulled Zeba aside. “You don’t go out tonight,” she said softly. “You stay here. Lock the door if you hear shouting. If anyone knocks, you don’t answer unless Selina says so.”

Zeba nodded, a knot forming in her stomach. “What about you?”

Maris smiled faintly. “I know the rules.”

When the door closed behind them, Zeba was alone again, the room suddenly too quiet. She sat on the couch, clutching her notebook, listening to the city outside. She did not know how long she would stay here, or what staying would cost her. But she knew one thing with absolute clarity: the foster home was no longer an option. Still, she wondered if anyone had noticed her absence...or if they were out searching for her.

...

Night fell slowly, stretching itself across the windows. Zeba lay back on the couch, staring up at the cracked ceiling, listening to the city breathe. Somewhere beyond these walls, lives unfolded, collided and unraveled. She was part of it now, whether she was ready or not.

And for the first time since she had left, the weight of that truth settled fully into her chest and she let out a deep sigh.