Chapter 25 Chapter 25
I kept my questions light. No one in this village needed to know why I wanted new papers, just that I did. I could almost imagine this life lasting a while: mornings with coffee, afternoons sweeping flour from the floor, and evenings by the sea. Sometimes, when I walked to the edge of the pier, I caught myself smiling for no reason. It felt strange, like using muscles I’d forgotten existed. The guilt came after, quick and sharp. How could I feel peace when everything that happened was still out there?
One afternoon, Lucia closed early and invited me to join her and her family for dinner. They lived above the bakery, also three generations crammed into two small rooms, loud and warm. The youngest daughter tried to braid my hair, laughing when my Spanish slipped into English. They passed food, poured wine, and told stories I barely understood, and for a few hours, I felt like I belonged somewhere. I didn't go straight to my room; I headed outside. The streets were silent except for the sound of the tide. I stopped outside and looked at the stars. They were brighter here, closer somehow. I tilted my head back until my neck hurt, just to see all of them.
I woke up the next morning to the rain falling. It was fast and heavy, drumming against the roof. I stood by the window watching the water run down the glass. The sea was gray and restless, but it didn’t scare me. For once, storms didn’t mean danger. They just meant weather.
After the rain stopped, I went to the post office and mailed a letter under the new name I’d been practicing. It was short, three lines to no one real. I just needed to see it in writing, proof that this new person existed somewhere outside my head. Days turned into weeks without me noticing. My body stopped flinching at sudden noises. I slept through the night more often than not. The nightmares still came, but softer, like echoes fading. I didn’t talk about the past, not to anyone, but it didn’t choke me the way it used to.
The man from the neighboring town visited every Wednesday. He bought bread from Lucia and spoke little. When I finally gathered the nerve to ask if he knew someone who could help me with “papers,” he didn’t look surprised. He just said, “Next week. Bring cash.” That was all. No questions, no judgment. I walked back along the shore with a paper bag of bread under my arm, the wind pulling at my hair. For the first time, the future didn’t feel like a chase. It felt like something waiting quietly ahead of me.
I spent the next few days preparing and arranging the money, packing light. I wrote down the details for the Bahamas again and drew tiny maps in the corner of my notebook. I didn’t know if I’d ever make it there, but just thinking about it made me feel alive. Sometimes, late at night, I still thought about Manhattan, the noise, the lights, and the ghosts I left behind. I wondered if they missed me, if anyone even noticed I was gone. Probably not. That was fine. Being forgotten was safer.
Lucia noticed my packed bag one morning and asked if I was leaving. I told her maybe, but not yet. She hugged me tight and told me to come back one day. Her daughter handed me a small shell necklace and said it would bring luck. I didn’t believe in luck, but I wore it anyway.
That evening I walked down to the water. The sand was cool under my feet, the tide low and gentle. Boats bobbed in the distance, and the horizon looked endless. I closed my eyes and breathed in the salt air until my chest stopped aching. For the first time in years, I wasn’t running. I wasn’t hiding. I was just standing there, breathing. The waves came and went, steady and calm, and the sound of them filled the empty spaces inside me. Tomorrow, I would take a bus north and meet the man who could help me vanish one last time. After that, maybe the Bahamas. Maybe somewhere else. But tonight, under that soft pink sky, I let myself believe that I was free, if only for a moment. And for me, that was enough.
The bus ride north was longer than I expected. The road was narrow and lined with green fields. The windows rattled, dust blowing through the cracks, and the air smelled like rain and exhaust. I sat by the window with my small bag clutched tight, trying not to think too much. Lucia had hugged me goodbye that morning, pressing a sandwich into my hands and whispering, “Cuídate, Isa.” Take care. I didn’t tell her I might never come back. Maybe she already knew.
The bus stopped in a small town that looked like it had been forgotten by time, with faded signs, dirt streets, and buildings the color of sunburnt clay. I stepped off and scanned the street. The directions I’d been given led to a café near the harbor, a place called El Sol Azul.
The café wasn’t much. A few tables outside, paint peeling from the walls, a tired-looking man behind the counter reading a newspaper. I ordered coffee I didn’t plan to drink and sat by the window. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Fifteen minutes passed before he showed up. I knew it was him right away; he was calm, deliberate, and dressed too clean for a place like this. His shirt was pressed, his shoes polished, and his eyes sharp. He didn’t smile when he saw me, just nodded once and took the seat across from mine. “You’re early,” he said in accented English.
“I didn’t want to be late.”
He nodded, glancing at the window before setting a small black envelope on the table between us. “You have the cash?” I slid the folded bills across the table under my napkin. He didn’t count them, just pocketed the money and sipped the coffee the waitress brought him. The whole thing felt too quiet.
“I need something clean,” I said softly. “Nothing traceable.”
“You want to disappear,” he said; it wasn’t a question. I hesitated, then nodded.
He studied me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. “You already have. This…” he gestured at me, “...this is what people look like when they’ve vanished.”
I didn’t know how to respond, so I just looked away. He reached into the envelope and slid out a passport, a driver’s license, and a plane ticket. The name printed across everything was Isabella D. Carver. I stared at it, tracing the letters like they belonged to someone else. “It’s all real enough,” he said. “The passport will pass inspection. The ticket is one-way.”
“To where?” I asked, even though I already knew. He smiled faintly. “Nassau.”
The Bahamas, my final destination. It felt unreal, like a word from another life, a place that belonged in magazines and dreams, not in mine.
“When?”