Mia remained at the corner for a long while, eyes fixed on the chipped edge of the mailbox and the way its red flag hung limp in the breeze. Something in the stillness of the street mocked her urgency. But she knew the moment to act was now—while Sarah's routine was predictable, before memories warped or timelines began folding.
When the laundromat door closed behind her with a muffled chime, Mia tucked her hands into her jacket pockets, stepping into the washed-out light. The hum of washers and dryers formed a rhythmic backdrop. Detergent hung thick in the air, tinged with metallic heat from the machines. Plastic chairs lined the far wall, each bearing signs of use: gum stuck beneath, scuff marks from restless feet, one still warm.
She spotted Sarah immediately.
The girl sat alone, perched on the edge of a molded chair, sneakers tapping softly on the tile. A basket of wet clothes sat at her feet. She stared at the dryer window as if it might offer something more than rotating cotton—as if it might explain her life.
Mia chose a chair two rows behind and one aisle over. She didn't sit. She hovered, eyeing the corners, the people. An old man counted coins into the vending machine. A toddler wailed as her mother wrangled a tangled bedsheet. The fluorescents above flickered with tired insistence.
Mia made a note of the machines Sarah preferred—dryer #4, washer #6—and how she sorted her items: towels first, then T-shirts, then socks last. There was a method there, one no one had likely ever noticed. It made Mia ache.
When Sarah stood and walked to the detergent shelf, Mia took her seat. The vinyl creaked under her weight. Up close, she saw a doodle scratched into the plastic: a smiley face with fangs. Beneath it, the word "someday" was carved.
Mia brushed a hand over it, thinking.
Her eyes flicked to the entrance every few seconds. If Sarah's father showed up, Mia needed a contingency. But so far, it was just the churn of machines and the occasional bell from the door. Safe, for now.
Sarah returned and sat again. She pulled a folded flyer from her pocket—probably school-related. She read it once, then folded it again with meticulous care. Her expression was blank, practiced.
She doesn't let herself feel in public.
Mia took a slow breath. She wouldn't act. Not yet. But watching Sarah this way—exposed to strangers, alert to sounds others ignored—strengthened her resolve. Something had to be done.
But only with precision.
The machines droned. The sound became meditative. Mia kept her posture neutral, casual. She listened to snippets of conversation, absorbed the scent of powder detergent, the glint of sunlight bouncing from the spin windows.
Time stretched oddly here. Minutes lengthened. Or maybe Mia's thoughts simply moved faster than they should. She caught herself wondering what might have happened if she'd tried this sooner. If she could've reached Sarah at some other point. But that door had already closed. This one remained ajar.
Sarah eventually stood again, transferring her clothes to a new basket. Her steps were steady but cautious, like someone who had learned not to trip because no one would help her up. As she adjusted the basket on her hip and pushed open the door with her elbow, Mia slipped out a moment later, following at a safe distance.
They walked in tandem but apart. Sarah didn't glance back. Mia traced every turn, memorized every yard sign, every mailbox, every alley that Sarah passed. One woman waved to Sarah from her porch. Sarah nodded politely but didn't slow.
She doesn't expect warmth. Only recognition.
The sun had begun to dip. Long shadows stretched between the houses. Leaves scraped the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked twice and then fell silent. A boy rode past on a scooter, dragging one foot as a brake. The smell of gasoline and mulch lingered from a freshly-mowed lawn.
Sarah turned down a side street, heading toward a squat brick building with a flickering sign that read "COMMUNITY CENTER."
Interesting.
Mia slowed and drifted to the opposite side of the street. She leaned on a phone pole and watched. Sarah didn't go in. She only stood near the door for a moment, looking at the bulletin board before walking past. A small notice flapped in the breeze beside her. Mia strained to see, but the lettering was too small.
Just observing. Or hesitating.
Inside the center, someone moved behind the blinds. A light clicked on. Mia felt a thread of tension. Was this part of Sarah's routine? Or a new deviation triggered by her presence?
She wouldn't know yet. But she logged it.
Eventually, Sarah took a different turn—one that didn't lead directly home. She looped around a small park, its swings empty and creaking. She slowed only once to sit for a moment on a low stone wall, just long enough to adjust her grip on the basket. Mia remained just beyond sight, standing near a vending machine tucked beside a maintenance shed.
Mia noticed the way Sarah watched her surroundings. Every glance was natural but deliberate. She was already learning to live cautiously. Not paranoid, but... calibrated. As if she'd already internalized the cost of being careless.
Mia's chest ached with the recognition.
The girl she had known as her mother had always carried a kind of quiet alertness. Mia had once mistaken it for wisdom. Maybe it was. But now, she saw the cost.
Finally, Sarah reached the front step of her house. She didn't go inside right away. She stood there, silent, shifting her weight. Then she turned slightly, as if aware of something just outside her view.
Mia ducked.
When she peeked again, Sarah had entered. The door clicked shut. The house seemed to exhale.
Mia stayed where she was, heart pounding.
Even minimal intervention has cost.
Still, the route was mapped. The timing was clear. The people around Sarah were logged. For now, she was safe.
But only for now.
Mia scribbled a few quick notes in the corner of her pocket journal, jotting times and streets, words like "watch patterns" and "bulletin ref: revisit". Then she stood in place a little longer, letting dusk settle fully.
In the silence, the laundromat's fluorescent hum seemed miles away. She pulled out a coin—a tarnished penny she'd picked up earlier from the vending machine tray—and turned it between her fingers.
The air shifted.
She looked once more at the house, now dark behind its curtains, and whispered, "Not yet."
Then she slipped down the street, vanishing into shadow.