The next morning, a knock came at 7 AM. He opened the door to a woman in a crisp nurse’s uniform, holding a casserole dish.
“Heard you bombed out of the city,” she said, sliding a beer toward him without asking.
“Why did you really come back?” she asked.
Maya. She’d been the tomboy next door, all scraped knees and fierce arguments. Now, she wiped down the counter with a forearm tattoo of a sea serpent, her dark hair tied in a messy knot. Her eyes held the same fire, but there was something else now—a knowing, tired warmth.
“Leo? No shit.”
She vanishes. The water churns.
The air grew thick. She unbuttoned the top of her flannel, revealing the edge of an old scar—a thin white line over her collarbone.