I moved into my grandmother's condo the following week.
No fanfare. Just me, a rental truck, and a box labeled *“Don't Open Unless Crying."* (It contained Oreos, three baby onesies I bought on impulse, and a playlist titled *“Try Again Tomorrow."*)
The condo was old but kind. Hardwood floors that creaked in approval. A balcony that faced the city skyline like it was listening.
The doorman, James, gave me a slow nod. “Didn't think we'd see another Hayes girl back here."
I smiled. “Just for a while."
I noticed the black sedan parked across the street that night. Didn't think much of it—until it showed up again the next day. Same plates.
One thunderstorm later, the power cut out. A transformer somewhere gave up the ghost. The whole building sighed into darkness.
I lit candles and curle
