CHAPTER 7: Where Strangers Meet
1110 Words
Chapter 7
Where Strangers Meet
Agatha woke up with a gasp.
Her heart was pounding, her hands trembling, her breath coming in uneven bursts as if she had just surfaced from underwater. She didn't know where she was for a second — the air felt too cold, the sheets too foreign, the silence too heavy. She could still feel Joash's warmth beside her, still hear the echo of his laugh, the way he used to whisper her name right before drifting off.
Then her eyes adjusted to the dim light. The world came into focus: muted gray walls, a half-unpacked suitcase in the corner, and the steady drizzle tapping against the window. The smell of rain, the taste of salt on her lips, and the chill in the air were all a stark reminder of her loss.
London. Not Los Angeles. Not home.
The realization struck like a quiet blade.
The dream clung to her like fog — Joash smiling across a crowded street, sunlight on his face, reaching for her through the blur of people. She had run to him, calling his name, the sound lost in the wind. The world shifted just before she could touch him — his face dissolving, the crowd swallowing him whole. Then nothing. He was her anchor, her confidant, her love. And now, he was gone.
She pressed a trembling hand to her lips. It had felt real. So painfully real. For a heartbeat, she believed he'd come back, that maybe all of this — the crash, the hospital, the grave — had just been a long nightmare she was finally waking from. But deep down, she knew it wasn't true. She knew she was alone.
But when she turned, the other side of the bed was empty. Cold.
A sob threatened to rise, but she swallowed it down, pressing her forehead to her knees. Her chest ached, not in the sharp, crying kind of way, but in that deep, gnawing ache that grief leaves behind — the kind that steals your strength without making a sound.
Minutes blurred into hours. She didn't move. She didn't eat. The half-light of morning melted into the soft gold of afternoon, and then into the bruised gray of dusk. Time meant nothing here. The clock ticked out of habit, not meaning.
She watched dusty Motes dance in the pale light. Watched the steam fade from her untouched cup of tea. Watched the drizzle outside become rain, tracing paths down the windowpane like the tears she couldn't shed.
Her phone buzzed once, then fell silent. She didn't check it. What could she say? That she was fine? Was London beautiful? She still woke up every morning expecting to find him breathing beside her.
The city outside moved on without her — car horns, footsteps, laughter echoing faintly through the street below. Life was happening, endlessly, cruelly, while hers had paused somewhere back in time.
She curled tighter at the edge of the bed, hugging the pillow against her chest as if it might fill the space Joash had left.
For a long time, she stared blankly at the faint pattern on the wallpaper — tiny, repeating lines that blurred together the longer she looked.
When she finally whispered his name, it came out fractured.
"Joash…"
The word broke in the middle, softer than breath, swallowed by the sound of the rain.
And for a moment, she thought she heard him answer — not in voice, but in memory. The sound of laughter in another life. The echo of love she could never touch again.
She didn’t even hear the first knock.
The second one startled her. A soft tap-tap-tap followed by a man’s voice.
“Miss Delos Reyes? Just checking in — I brought you something.”
Agatha blinked, wiped her face, and stood. Her reflection in the mirror startled her — messy hair, swollen eyes, a ghost of herself.
She forced a small breath, brushed her hair back, and opened the door.
Her landlord, a gray-haired man with kind eyes, smiled and held up a small tray.
“Welcome to London. My wife insists everyone should have something warm on their first day — shepherd’s pie, a bit of tea.”
Agatha managed a soft smile. “That’s… very kind of you. Thank you.”
He nodded, eyes gentle but knowing. “It gets easier,” he said quietly. “The missing part. Maybe not today, but one day.”
After he left, she stood by the door for a while, tray in hand, wondering how he could possibly have known.
That night, she found herself on the balcony again. The air was cold, but she didn’t care. The sky stretched above her — a hazy London sky with shy stars. Somewhere below, the hum of the city softened into a lullaby of distant laughter, footsteps, and rain-damp wind.
Then she heard it.
The piano.
That same haunting melody drifting from across the alley, tender and fractured all at once. It wrapped around her, gentle as a whisper, sharp as memory.
She leaned on the railing, closing her eyes. “Why can’t you just let me move on?” she murmured to the night. “Why do you keep finding ways to follow me?”
A bitter laugh escaped her lips, barely a sound. “You promised forever, Joash. And here I am — talking to the air, begging the wind for an answer.”
The music swelled, as if it held a secret. She opened her eyes — and that’s when it happened.
Across the alley, the man at the piano looked up, as if he had heard her thoughts.
Their eyes met.
For a heartbeat, everything stilled. The rain, the city, her pulse. His silhouette was faint in the amber light, but his gaze felt unsettlingly real even from a distance. Curious. Searching. Like he could see her, not just through the window, but through every wall she’d built around her heart.
Agatha froze, breath catching in her throat.
Then the man paused, hands still on the keys, and tilted his head slightly — a question she couldn’t hear but somehow felt.
She didn’t wave. She didn’t move. Just stood there, caught between fear and something she couldn’t name.
Then, without warning, he smiled — small, almost imperceptible — and turned back to the piano.
The melody changed. Softer. Sadder.
Agatha’s fingers gripped the railing. “Who are you?” she whispered.
The music was her only reply.
And somewhere deep inside her chest, something fragile stirred — not hope yet, but the faintest sound of it beginning to wake.
End of Chapter 7.
- Writer
