The quiet Life
Chapter 1
Annalise's POV
“Bye, Miss Grace!”
I smiled and waved back.
“Bye, sweetheart. See you tomorrow.”
The last child left at 4:47pm. I watched little Sophie skip across the kindergarten entrance, her tiny hand wrapped tightly around her mother’s finger, while the other hand waved at me through the glass.
She went around the corner, and just like that, the noise faded. No more tiny feet running across the classroom floor. No more crayons rolling beneath tables. No more arguments about who got to sit beside whom during story time. No more little voices calling my name every thirty seconds. Everywhere was just silent.
I stood in the middle of my classroom and let out a slow breath. This was my favorite part of the day. Not because I didn’t love the children.
I did. God, I loved them.
They had a way of making everything feel lighter. Their problems were small enough to solve with a hug, a biscuit, or a promise that tomorrow would be better. If only adulthood worked that way. I began tidying the classroom, collecting abandoned pencils and stacking picture books back onto the shelf. A paper butterfly hung above the reading corner, its wings covered in glitter.
I reached up to straighten it.
“There.”
I smiled faintly. Everything in its place. That was how I liked my life. Simple, predictable, and safe. Maybe that was why I had become so good at it. There were no surprises in my life because I had spent years making sure there couldn’t be any. I knew exactly what tomorrow would look like. I’d wake up at seven, make coffee, take the same bus, teach the same children, come home, make dinner for 1, read for a while and sleep. Same routine every day.
There was comfort in knowing what came next. There was also something painfully lonely about it. I pushed the thought away. Loneliness was easier when you didn’t call it loneliness. I picked up my bag from beneath my desk and looked around the classroom one last time.
The walls were covered with drawings the children had made during the week. Families. Houses. Dogs. Rainbows.
Families were everywhere. A mother. A father. Two children holding hands. A smiling sun above them.
I looked away.
My eyes landed on one drawing taped beside the window.
It was a picture of a little girl holding an older woman’s hand. Above them, written in uneven purple letters, were the words: “me and my mummy.”
Something inside my chest tightened.
“Not today,” I said to myself. I didn’t know whether I was speaking to the drawing or myself.
My mother had been dead for four years. Four years. Sometimes it felt like yesterday. Sometimes it felt like she’d been gone my entire life. Clara Grace had been many things. She had been the person I called when I didn’t know what to cook, when I had a bad day, when I couldn’t decide which dress to wear, when I simply wanted to hear another human voice.
Then one day, there was no one to call. Cancer didn’t care that I wasn’t ready. It didn’t care that I still needed her. It simply took her. And left me behind. I had thought the grief would become easier with time. It didn’t. You simply become better at carrying it.
I picked up my coat and slipped it on.
Outside, Manchester was already settling into the evening. The sky was a dull shade of grey, and a light drizzle had begun to fall. People hurried along the pavement with their heads lowered, umbrellas bobbing above them.
I pulled my scarf tighter around my neck and stepped outside. The cold hit my face immediately as I walked toward the bus stop, my shoes tapping against the wet pavement. A couple stood nearby, laughing beneath a shared umbrella. The woman leaned against the man’s shoulder. He kissed the top of her head. I looked away.
No, it wasn’t jealousy.
At least, that’s what I told myself. I wasn’t asking for some grand romance. I didn’t need flowers delivered to my workplace or someone waiting at the door with dinner. I only wanted something small. Someone who would notice when I had a bad day or who would ask if I was okay and actually wait for the answer. Someone who would know me. The thought made my chest ache.
I shoved my hands deeper into my coat pockets. Wanting things was dangerous. I’d learned that a long time ago. Wanting made you vulnerable and vulnerability had a way of turning into loss.
My phone buzzed.
I pulled it from my pocket. For one stupid second, my heart went high. Maybe it was a message from someone. Anyone. Instead, it was a reminder from my bank. Payment due tomorrow. I laughed under my breath.
“Of course.”
I put the phone away. The bus arrived a few minutes later. I climbed aboard, found a seat near the window, and watched the city slide past. Families walked together. Friends crowded outside cafés. Couples held hands. Everyone seemed to belong somewhere. I rested my forehead against the cold glass. I wondered what it would feel like to belong somewhere again. Not just for a job, not just for an apartment, not just for a routine, but for people. To a family.
The thought frightened me almost as much as it comforted me, because if I let myself want that, I might have to admit that my quiet little life wasn’t enough, and I wasn’t ready to admit that. When I finally reached my stop, the rain had become heavier. I hurried down the familiar street toward my apartment building.
Home.
The word should have made me feel warm. Instead, it felt strangely empty. I climbed the stairs to my floor and searched through my bag for my keys. My fingers closed around them. I looked up. My apartment door was closed. Everything looked normal. The same faded welcome mat. The same small scratch near the handle. The same little plant sitting beside the door. I smiled faintly.
See? Nothing ever happened to me.
That was the beauty of my life. Nothing happened. I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
“I’m home,” I whispered automatically.
The words echoed back at me.
I froze.
I didn’t know why. Maybe it was the silence, or it was the strange feeling that had settled over me the moment I stepped inside. Something felt wrong. I closed the door slowly behind me. The apartment looked exactly as I’d left it that morning or at least, I thought it did. I dropped my bag on the chair and walked farther inside. Then I noticed it. The drawer beside the television was open. I stopped. I always kept that drawer closed. Always.
My heart began beating faster. I took one cautious step forward. Then another. The drawer had been emptied. Photographs were scattered across the floor. Things I hadn't touched in years.
“No…this can’t be."
