The boxes were already stacked by the door when I came home from work.
Not all of them—just enough to make a point.
I dropped my bag by the coat rack and stood there for a second, staring at the taped-up reminders that this life was, again, temporary. The apartment already looked emptier. Like it was holding its breath.
"Didn't think we were moving until next week," I said.
My grandmother didn't look up from the table. She was sharpening a small kitchen knife, not because it needed it, but because it gave her something to do. Her hands always needed to move.
"Better to be ready early," she said. "We don't wait for trouble to knock."
I walked past her, poured a glass of water, tried not to look annoyed. "No oneI didn't ask again. Because that was how it was with her—grief like a steel door, bolted shut. Every memory sealed behind it. And maybe that was how she survived. But I was tired of surviving. I wanted more.'s knocking. No one even knows we're here."
She gave me a look. Cold. Quiet. The kind that says you don't know anything.
"I've kept you alive this long," she said. "Don't make it harder now."
That was how we fought—without shouting. Just sharp words and longer silences.
I wanted to scream. Not because I was angry, but because I felt like I was suffocating. I'd only just started breathing in this life—this quiet, borrowed, almost-normal thing—and now she was taking it away again. Before it could mean anything. Before I could mean anything to someone.
The next day at the café, Liv noticed the shift in me before I even spoke.
"You're in a weird mood," she said, eyeing me over a tray of clean mugs. "Something up?"
I hesitated, then nodded. "I need to tell you something."
Her brow furrowed instantly. "You're not quitting, are you?"
"Sort of." I gave her a small, careful smile. "I'm going to visit my grandmother's hometown this weekend. I… won't be coming back for a while."
Arlo looked up from behind the counter. "Wait, like—permanently?"
"Yeah," I said softly. "She's not doing great. And I think it's time I… went with her."
That part wasn't a lie. Not exactly. Her health had dipped since winter, and the tiredness didn't seem to leave her anymore. But that wasn't why we were leaving. Not really.
Liv set the mugs down. "El, what the hell. You didn't even mention this before."
"I didn't want to make it a big thing." That much was true.
Micah didn't say anything right away. Just gave me that quiet, steady look. The one that always made me feel like he saw more than I meant to show.
"You'll call?" Liv asked.
I nodded, lying with ease. "Of course."
She hugged me then, tight and fast, like she didn't want to let go too long in case she'd start crying. Arlo said something about giving me leftover pastries on my last day. Micah didn't say a word, just passed me a note like he always did.
This one said:
"I hope the place you're going feels like home."
I folded it carefully and slipped it into my pocket like it was something rare. Something I'd want to hold onto when everything else was gone.I stood there for a long moment after they left. Just stood behind the counter and stared at the espresso machine like it might offer an answer. Like it might whisper something simple and human—stay. But it didn't. Machines don't care about monsters.
And I guess neither does fate.
That night, I found my grandmother packing herbs in small glass jars, moving with silent precision.
"You should pack your things tomorrow," she said without turning. "We leave before the full moon."
"I told them," I murmured.
She stopped.
"My friends. I said I was leaving. They think we're going back to your hometown."
Her shoulders tensed, just for a second. "Good."
She started moving again—tucking dried lavender into cloth sachets, labeling bottles in a script I'd seen my mother use in old journals. There was comfort in her movements. Muscle memory. A kind of grief that had turned into ritual.
I leaned against the door frame, watching her.
"Do you ever miss staying?" I asked.
She didn't answer right away. Then:
"I miss your mother."
That was the end of that conversation.
I didn't ask again. Because that was how it was with her—grief like a steel door, bolted shut. Every memory sealed behind it. And maybe that was how she survived. But I was tired of surviving. I wanted more.
Later, I sat by the window, the lights dim, the street below quiet.
I pulled Micah's note from my pocket and read it again.
I pressed it flat against my knee and traced the words. Felt them like a pulse. He didn't know what I was, what I carried, what followed me like a shadow. But somehow he always managed to say the right thing. Like he could sense the parts of me that were fraying.
He'd never know the truth. Not unless it found him too.
I didn't want to leave.
But wanting never mattered in our world.
The stars were out, faint behind the clouds. I watched them blur and sharpen, my reflection flickering in the glass. I whispered goodbye to no one. To everything. To the tiny life I'd borrowed and tried to believe in.
Because tomorrow, we'd vanish again.
And the girl they knew—the girl who made lattes and told bad jokes and tried to live like a human—she'd vanish too.