Chapter 4 – A Quiet Life
1659 Words
~ Isla ~
The sea was the only thing that hadn’t changed.
Every morning, I sat on the small balcony of my rented apartment and watched the water. It was quiet here, and quiet was all I wanted.
The doctor said I was six months pregnant. The baby had kicked for the first time last week, a light, uncertain movement that made me cry before I even realized why. Maybe because it made everything real.
I’d stopped using my real name when I arrived. To everyone else, I was Elena Rossi, a widow from Florence starting over. The landlord didn’t ask questions, and the neighbors kept their distance. I worked part-time at a small art gallery near the pier, helping with displays and tourists.
It wasn’t much, but it kept me occupied.
At night, I still listened for footsteps outside my door. That habit didn’t go away. Every sound in the hallway made my stomach tighten, even though I told myself he couldn’t find me.
I had been careful. New identity, new phone, no trail. I had crossed two borders under a name that wasn’t mine.
And yet, I still heard his voice sometimes.
I left everything behind; my job, my friends, my home. Even my face felt unfamiliar when I looked in the mirror.
There were moments when guilt came back hard, for the lies, the staged accident, and for the part of me that still missed him. Because I did.
Adrian could be cruel, but he also knew how to be gentle. He had a way of making me feel safe and trapped at the same time. I hated that I could still remember his touch, even after everything.
I rested a hand on my stomach. “It’s just us now,” I said quietly.
The baby kicked again.
I wanted to believe that meant something, that I was the one in control now, not him.
At the gallery, the owner, Emilia, treated me kindly. She was in her sixties, strict but fair. Sometimes she handed me food before I went home. “You’re too thin,” she’d say. “Eat. You have a growing being in you now.”
I thanked her, though she didn’t know the truth about me.
Every day followed the same pattern: morning walk, gallery shift, dinner, bed by ten. It helped me feel normal again.
Last night, as I locked up, I noticed a man standing near the corner of the street. He wasn’t moving, and he wasn’t pretending not to watch. He didn’t look like a tourist.
When I looked again, he walked away.
I didn’t sleep much because I kept thinking of the man.
This morning, I told myself it was nothing, it was probably just my nerves acting up. But when I opened my door, there was a small envelope on the floor. No name. No address. Just one photo inside.
It was me, sitting outside the gallery two days ago.
I dropped it and my hands shook.
There was no note, no explanation.
He’d found me or at least someone had.
That night, I packed my bag, my passport, some cash.
When I caught my reflection in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. My hair was tied back, my face looked tired, and my stomach was obvious now.
I turned off the light and lay down. The baby moved, and I thought about what would happen if Adrian knew.
He wouldn’t let me go.
And maybe what scared me most was that part of me wasn’t sure I wanted to be forgotten.
In the morning, I sat on the balcony with a coffee I didn’t drink. The photo was on the table. I had been staring at it for hours. It didn’t make sense. There was no message, no threat, just proof someone had been close.
Every instinct told me to run, it was how I survived before. But I didn’t know where to go now. Getting here without being traced had been hard enough.
My stomach tightened again. The baby moved under my ribs, reminding me that running meant too much risk.
I told myself it might be a coincidence, but deep down, I knew better.
I didn’t notice I was crying until the tears hit the photo. I must have picked it up again without realizing. The image blurred for a second before I wiped it dry with my sleeve and took a slow breath.
Leaving meant another name, another lie, another city where I’d pretend to belong. I didn’t know if I could do it again while heavily pregnant.
But staying meant waiting for something to happen.
Around noon, Lucia knocked. “Elena, you’re late. You forgot what time we open?”
Her voice was teasing, but I didn’t answer right away. I couldn’t let her see me like this, shaking, eyes swollen, a bag half-packed on the floor.
I opened the door slightly. “I’m not feeling well,” I said.
Lucia’s expression softened. “Then stay home. Rest. I’ll bring food later.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
After she left, I sat on the bed again, staring at the suitcase. Every sound outside made my heart race.
If he was here, he wouldn’t come quietly. Adrian never did. The photo said enough, it was a message without words.
He was letting me know he was close.
That night, I didn’t pack more. I sat by the window and listened to the quiet. I remembered all the times he’d said, I’ll always protect you. Back then, I believed it. I didn’t understand that his protection always came with control.
The baby kicked again.
“I’ll keep you safe,” I said. “No matter what.”
My voice broke, but I kept speaking. Saying it helped me stay calm.
I knew I couldn’t run without a plan. If he was coming, I had to stay alert and think.
I’d survived this far by keeping quiet, by staying small. Maybe that would have to be enough.
I folded the photo, put it in a drawer, and made myself a promise to act normal. Go to work tomorrow. Smile. Keep my routine.
If he wanted to find me, he’d have to face me.
The fear didn’t
go away, but underneath it, I felt something–determination.
Because now, I had something to protect.
- Writer
