Chapter 56

Chapter 56
The scent of chamomile rose in slow curls of steam between them.

Joy held her mug with both hands, fingers wrapped tight around the warm ceramic. She hadn't taken a sip yet. The heat was calming, anchoring—just enough to keep her here, now, in this quiet kitchen with the ticking clock and the distant sound of birds waking outside the window.

Grandma had gone quiet. She never pushed too hard when Joy's thoughts started pulling her under. She just sipped her tea, soft and present, like a lighthouse in thick fog. Her eyes flicked now and then to the box on the counter, but she didn't speak of it again.

Joy stared at the tea. Her reflection trembled in the surface—blurred, broken by each ripple.

He couldn't have found her.

He couldn't.

She'd been careful. She changed her name on her travel records. Bought her ticket in cash. No digital trail. She hadn't called anyone. Hadn't even let herself think his name for weeks after she ran.

But now the phone was here. Her phone. The one she'd thrown away like a buried secret.

A chill traced her spine. Her heart thudded harder—not fast, but louder, like her chest was hollowing out to make room for it.

Breathe.

She looked at Elsa, curled in a loaf beside the table leg. Calm. Trusting. As if the world hadn't shifted the second that box was opened.

"Baby," Grandma said softly, setting her mug down. "Look at me."

Joy blinked and looked up.

"You're here," Grandma said, voice gentle but firm. "You're safe. No one's coming through that door."

Joy nodded, too quickly.

"Say it out loud," Grandma urged. "Say it to your body. Sometimes the mind listens better that way."

Joy hesitated. Her throat was dry.

"I'm safe," she whispered. "I'm here."

She didn't believe it yet. Not completely. But the words helped fill the space where panic had begun to press.

"Good." Grandma gave her a small, proud smile. "Now sip your tea before it turns cold and starts tasting like boiled socks."

Joy gave a quiet breath of laughter. Barely there—but real. She lifted the cup to her lips. It shook slightly in her hands, but she managed a sip. The warmth trickled down her throat like something alive. Like something fighting the cold creeping back in.

"I don't want to open it," she murmured.

"Then don't," Grandma said without hesitation. "You owe no one your peace. Especially not someone who made you forget you had any."

They drank their tea in silence after that. The house held its breath with them.

The box stayed on the counter, unopened. Joy didn't touch it again. Not yet.

But her eyes kept drifting to it.

And somewhere deep inside her, that quiet part—the part she tried to keep hidden even from herself—was whispering:

If he found the phone... what else did he find?

The sun had climbed higher now, casting warm lines across the floor as if drawing invisible paths for her to follow. Joy had cleaned up the dishes, wiped the counter three times more than necessary, and fed Elsa a bowl of sliced cucumber and carrots—an apology for forgetting the night before.

Grandma stood by the door, purse slung lazily across her shoulder and a wide-brimmed straw hat perched crookedly on her head.

"I'm going to the market," she announced. "We're out of tomatoes. And you, my love, look like a ghost who's trying very hard to pretend she isn't haunted."

Joy raised a brow. "That's your way of inviting me to come?"

"That's my way of saying I'm not letting you sulk around the house all day like a Victorian widow." Grandma gave her a pointed look. "Go grab that pale blue dress—the one that makes you look less like a librarian and more like a human being."

Joy didn't want to smile, but it tugged at her mouth anyway. "Fine. But only because I actually want strawberries."

"Sure," Grandma said with a smirk. "Blame the fruit."

The market was alive in a soft, unhurried way. Not loud or busy—just pleasant. Kids ran between stalls, a man played guitar near the fountain, and the air smelled like sun-warmed bread and citrus peels.

Joy walked beside Grandma, canvas bag slung over one shoulder, still half-listening to the older woman mutter about how tomatoes were never this expensive when she was younger.

For a moment, Joy forgot about the box.

They stopped at a small flower stand near the edge of the market, and Joy wandered off a few steps while Grandma argued playfully with the seller about a bouquet's real value.

She leaned down to a tray of lavender, the scent tugging something calm into her chest. Not everything had to mean something. Not every day had to be a storm.

"Pretty, isn't it?" the florist said beside her. A gentle woman in her sixties, sunspots on her cheeks and kind eyes.

Joy nodded. "Yeah. Reminds me of someone."

The woman didn't ask who.

"Lavender's stubborn," she added, brushing her hand along the leaves. "Survives where most plants don't. And it heals everything from skin to sleeplessness. I always say it's a quiet fighter."

Joy looked down at the small pot in front of her, then at her hands.

"Maybe I need one."

"Maybe you are one."

She blinked, caught off guard, but the woman had already turned to help another customer.

Grandma returned with a tiny bag of tangerines and her usual triumphant smirk. "Didn't get the price down, but I guilt-tripped him into throwing in a melon."

Joy held up the lavender.

Grandma's eyes softened just slightly. "That for you or for Elsa?"

"Maybe both," Joy said quietly.

They walked home slowly. Joy didn't say anything more. She just let the sun press gently into her shoulders and the sound of the market follow her like a song half-remembered.

The box was still on the counter when they returned.

But for the first time that day, Joy didn't look at it.

Evening fell like a hush.

The kitchen was dim now, only lit by the golden spill of a single overhead bulb and the rhythmic hum of the refrigerator. Joy stood at the sink, rinsing the last of the strawberries. She'd eaten a few on the walk back, but the rest were for tomorrow—if Grandma didn't devour them all first.

Elsa hopped lazily across the floor, stopping now and then to nose at the hem of Joy's dress, as if checking she was still real.

From the living room, the sound of a game show drifted in and out—Grandma half-watching, half-knitting something no one asked for. It was peaceful in the way small routines often were. A little too peaceful.

Joy wiped her hands and turned off the tap. Her eyes flicked again to the box on the corner of the counter. She hadn't touched it since that morning. It hadn't moved. But it might as well have been ticking.

She was about to carry the strawberries to the fridge when she heard soft footsteps behind her.

"Hey."

Eli's voice.

She turned. He was standing in the doorway, hair still damp from a shower, wearing a simple black T-shirt and those old jeans he always wore when he wanted to blend in.

"Hey," she said, unsure of what to do with her hands.

"I brought back your book," he said, holding up the battered mystery novel she'd lent him last week. "You were right—the detective was the ex-wife."

Joy gave a small smile. "Told you."

He stepped into the kitchen, eyes scanning her face for longer than necessary. "Everything okay?"

"I'm fine," she lied.

He nodded slowly, then leaned against the counter near her—close, but not too close.

"You look tired."

"I'm always tired."

They stood in silence. Not uncomfortable, but full. Like both were weighing their words.

"Eli..." she started, then stopped. She didn't know what she meant to say.

He didn't push. He just looked at her the way he always did—like he noticed more than she wanted him to, but would never say it out loud.

"Grandma says you argued with a melon man today."

Joy huffed. "She argued. I just stood there, embarrassed."

Eli chuckled. "That sounds about right."

Another pause. Then, softly, "She also said you got a package."

Joy looked down. "Yeah."

"Is that what's bothering you?"

She didn't answer right away. Then—"It was my old phone."

Eli's brows lifted a little.

"I threw it away before I left," she continued, voice low. "In an airport trash can. But this morning it just... showed up. No name. No message."

He was quiet. His face didn't change much, but she could tell it landed hard.

"You think someone sent it on purpose?"

"I don't know," she whispered. "I don't want to know."

Eli glanced at the box, then back at her. "You don't have to open it. Or talk about it. But... if you do—talk, I mean—I'll listen."

She nodded. That was all she could manage without her throat closing up.

He stepped back like he felt the moment tightening. "Alright," he said gently. "Just came to return the book. Didn't mean to dig up ghosts."

"You didn't."

Joy paused. Then: "Thanks, Eli."

He smiled, shy again, and tapped the edge of the book on the counter.

"I'll bring you cookies next time," he said.

Then he left her there, standing in the glow of the kitchen light, the lavender still blooming on the windowsill, and the strawberries waiting for a bowl.

And even with the weight of the phone still nearby, something about that quiet promise—I'll listen—was enough to keep the dark from swallowing her whole.