Chapter 55

Chapter 55
As they reentered the hall, the atmosphere inside was just as glittering and loud as when they left—but it all felt a little quieter now, or maybe Joy had just changed frequencies. The music had shifted to something peppy again. People were laughing louder, dancing looser. Someone had clearly found the champagne table and made it their mission to empty it.

Grandma spotted them from across the room almost instantly.

"Ah!" she called out, waving with the enthusiasm of someone welcoming long-lost relatives. "There you are, honeymooners!"

Joy nearly choked. Eli made a noise that could only be described as a polite sigh of resignation.

"We were outside," Joy said quickly, cheeks warming.

"I know," Grandma replied, standing with a glass of what looked like ginger ale but could just as easily be pure mischief. "Took you long enough. Did you get married out there or just make awkward eye contact for ten minutes?"

Joy blinked. "Grandma!"

"What? I'm old. I don't have time for subtlety."

Mrs. Adeshina and the other two old ladies reappeared at that moment, fanning themselves dramatically as if on cue.

"We saw you two," one of them said with a theatrical wink. "Spinning under the lights like a movie ending."

"We were just dancing," Eli said, a little stiffly.

Joy looked up at him. His ears were red.

The ladies swooned in unison.

"Look at him blushing! This is delicious," said Feather Dress.

"You two should do that more often," said Red Wine Hair. "You looked happy."

Joy smiled quietly at that, but didn't say anything.

Eventually, the conversations shifted. Eli returned to his familiar role of hovering just nearby enough to be protective, just distant enough to be comfortable. Grandma regaled someone with a story about nearly getting kicked out of a museum in Vienna. Joy sat through three compliments and two dessert offers from strangers before she finally, gently excused herself.

Later that night, back at the house, Joy lay on the bed in her borrowed room, the lamp casting a soft golden light against the walls. She was still in her dress, her shoes kicked off near the door, her hair let down around her shoulders.

She stared at the ceiling.

The dance kept playing on repeat in her mind—not the steps, not even the music, but the feeling.

The quiet steadiness of his hand in hers. The way he'd looked at her—not intense, not possessive, just present. Kind. A little uncertain. But always there.

And the way they'd almost—

She sighed, covering her face briefly with both hands.

There hadn't been a kiss. Not really. But something had shifted. And she didn't know what to do with that.

She wasn't ready for something big. Not yet. Maybe not for a long time.

But for the first time in months, she hadn't felt invisible. She hadn't felt broken. And the way Eli had looked at her—like she was whole, like she was real—that had meant something.

Joy sat up, letting her legs dangle off the edge of the bed.

She could hear the faint sound of Grandma humming in the hallway. Somewhere, a clock ticked.

And in the quiet, Joy smiled to herself—soft, small, but real.

Whatever this was... it was enough for now.

Joy felt something soft brush her cheek.

A moment passed before she stirred. The room was still dim, washed in pale morning light leaking through the curtain. She blinked slowly, not quite awake, not quite dreaming. Then came a second, firmer nudge—this time at the corner of her mouth.

She turned her head and opened her eyes.

Elsa.

The small white rabbit was half on her pillow, her paws tucked neatly under her, ears upright, and nose twitching with quiet insistence. Her fur was impossibly soft, her whiskers brushing Joy's skin like the lightest of reminders.

Joy didn't move at first. She just stared into Elsa's unblinking eyes. The room was quiet, except for the subtle rhythm of her own breathing and the tick of the old wall clock in the hallway. Somewhere downstairs, a pipe moaned faintly.

Then it hit her.

"I forgot your vegetables," she whispered.

Elsa didn't react. She just sat there, statuesque, like she'd known all along.

Joy sighed, slowly pushing the covers off. Her body felt heavy—not tired exactly, but drained in that strange way that followed too much smiling, too much standing, too much pretending to be at ease. Her feet met the floor, cold and grounding.

Elsa hopped off the bed without a sound and waited by the door, back foot giving a soft, deliberate thump.

"I know," Joy said, voice quiet, almost tender. "You warned me last night. I just... forgot."

She followed Elsa down the hall into the kitchen. The tiles were cool against her skin. The space smelled faintly of tea leaves and the banana bread Grandma had made two mornings ago and left half-covered on the counter.

Joy moved slowly, without rush, her mind fogged in a quiet sort of way—not distressed, just distant.

She opened the fridge, found the kale, a carrot, and what remained of yesterday's zucchini. She peeled and chopped without speaking. Elsa sat a few feet away on the kitchen rug, ears still, eyes steady, as if she were listening for something Joy hadn't said yet.

When the bowl was full, Joy placed it on the floor gently.

Elsa approached it with the unhurried grace of someone who knew they were owed care, not rushing, just eating.

Joy leaned against the counter and watched her.

"I didn't sleep much," she murmured. "You probably knew that."

Elsa didn't respond—just chewed with quiet precision.

Joy looked toward the window. The sunlight was rising behind the trees now, casting long shadows through the lace curtains. The whole house still felt asleep. Even the walls felt heavy with silence.

"I danced last night," she said softly. "And for a few minutes... I forgot how heavy everything feels."

She didn't cry. She didn't smile, either. She just let the truth sit there in the air, next to the sound of Elsa munching on a piece of kale.

"Nothing bad happened," she added. "And that feels... strange. Like I don't know what to do with that."

The rabbit paused, looked up at her briefly, and then returned to her breakfast.

Joy let out a breath. "Right. One thing at a time."

She turned and reached for the kettle. A cup of tea. A quiet morning. And maybe—just maybe—a little more peace than yesterday.

The kettle had just begun to steam when Joy heard the soft shuffle of slippers coming down the hallway. She didn't turn. She could already tell by the familiar rhythm—slow, steady, always a little dramatic at the end—that it was Grandma.

Then came the voice: half whisper, half bewildered.

"Joy, baby... Did you order something?"

Joy turned, brows faintly pinched.

Grandma stood in the doorway, wrapped in her robe and holding a small brown box in her arms. Her gray hair was tied up in a loose scarf, and she wore her usual expression of tired curiosity—like someone who had lived long enough to know better but still got surprised anyway.

Joy tilted her head. "No. Why?"

Grandma walked in slowly, setting the box on the counter like it might hum or hiss. "This was outside the front door. No delivery van. No knock. Just sitting there like it knew where it belonged."

Joy straightened, wiping her hands on a dish towel. The box was plain—no logos, no fragile sticker, not even a smudge of dirt. Just cardboard. Clean. Sealed tight. No name. No address.

Joy slit the tape along the edge of the box with the paring knife. The cardboard opened with a quiet pop, releasing a faint scent of... plastic. Faintly familiar.

Inside, wrapped in soft tissue paper like something fragile, was a single object.

A phone.

Her phone.

The same dusty pink case, scratched at the corner where it had hit the pavement at the airport. The same barely-there crack across the top right of the screen.

Joy's breath left her all at once.

Grandma leaned in. "What is it?"

Joy didn't answer immediately. She just stared.

She had thrown that phone away. Left it at the airport bathroom, buried at the bottom of a trash bin, right before boarding a night bus to nowhere. It had been deliberate—part of her disappearing. Part of cutting herself away from him.

"It's mine," she said quietly. "It's... my old phone."

Grandma looked at her for a moment, not asking the question Joy knew was coming. Instead, she stepped back and rubbed her arms like she suddenly felt a draft. "No note?"

Joy shook her head. "Nothing. Just the phone."

Elsa had stopped chewing. She sat perfectly still now, ears angled toward them like she was listening.

Joy set the box down slowly. Her hands were cold.

"Maybe someone found it," Grandma said after a pause. "Thought you'd want it back. Maybe a security person at the airport."

"Then how did they know where to send it?"

That silenced them both.

Joy picked up the phone, gently now, like it might explode or whisper. The screen was dark, but she could feel the weight of it, the history. A device full of lost voicemails, photos she couldn't look at, numbers she never wanted to call again.

She turned it over in her hand.

"I don't want it," she whispered.

Grandma stepped closer. "Baby, if you're scared—"

"I'm not scared," Joy said, but her voice was thin. "I just don't want to remember what's on it."

Grandma said nothing.

Joy placed the phone back into the box like it was something unclean. Her pulse was starting to rise now, just a little. Her chest tightening, her mind darting between old shadows. That house. That voice. That man.

She looked down at Elsa, who was now sitting still, ears folded back. Like she sensed something unsettled.

Joy closed the box slowly and pushed it aside.

"I'm not turning it on," she said.

"Good," Grandma said. "Let's have tea first. Then we'll decide if we're burning it or burying it in the yard."