Caught in a dilemma, Elishia struggled to open her mouth. Her lips parted, trembling slightly, but all that came out was a weak, uncertain, “Hmm.”

Mark let out a small huff of a laugh, the sound rougher than usual. “That’s all?” he teased, though his words were slightly slurred due to his busted lip. The smirk on his face didn’t quite reach his eyes, but he clearly tried. His gaze flickered across her face—taking in the way she worried her bottom lip, the shadows under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders. Maybe he noticed her troubled expression, maybe that’s why he was making jokes, trying to lighten the mood like he always did when things got too heavy.

But Elishia didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Not when her heart was hammering against her ribs, not when every word felt like it might crack her open completely.

The air shifted. What was light became heavy, pressing down on them both. The awkwardness between them stretched, thick and suffocating, filling every corner of the small space. Elishia kept her gaze lowered, watching her hands as they clenched and unclenched repeatedly over her pajama bottoms. The fabric was soft, worn from washing, a comfort she clung to. Mark stared at the moldy ceiling, his left hand fidgeting against the rough bedsheet, fingers picking at a loose thread.

Several seconds passed.

It felt like an hour.

Say something, Elishia urged herself. Anything. 

But the words wouldn’t come. They never did when it mattered most.

Then Mark exhaled deeply, the sound followed by a quiet groan of pain that made her breath hitched. Still staring at the ceiling, his voice barely above a whisper, he murmured, “You should go back to bed.”

It wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t dismissive. 

Elishia didn’t move.

Mark’s mind churned, his thoughts a chaotic storm. What am I doing here? This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. I’m not some bleeding-heart hero. She shouldn’t even be here, shouldn’t be sitting in this shithole clinic because of me, because of the mess I dragged her into. She should be somewhere safe, somewhere clean, somewhere far away from all this.

He risked a glance at her from the corner of his eye. She looked so small sitting there, drowning in those oversized pajamas, her dark hair falling like a curtain around her face. Something twisted in his chest—guilt, maybe, or something he didn’t want to name.

From his peripheral vision, he saw her shift. Elishia raised her head slowly, as if weighing every word before she spoke. Her eyes, when they finally met his, were bright.

“You…” she started, then paused, biting her lower lip hard enough to leave marks. The silence stretched between them, heavy with everything she couldn’t say.

How do I tell him? she wondered desperately. How do I tell him that watching him bleed terrified me more than anything about that night? How do I tell him that I’ve never had anyone risk themselves for me before? How do I tell him that I don’t know how to be grateful without falling apart?

“You should get well,” she finally managed, her voice barely above a whisper. “You should avoid having severe injuries like this. You…” Her voice cracked, but she pushed forward, the words tumbling out in a rush. “You should cherish your life.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Mark felt them settle somewhere deep in his chest, in a place he’d forgotten existed. When was the last time someone had told him his life mattered? When was the last time someone had looked at him with genuine concern instead of fear or disgust?

Without waiting for a response, she stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. Her movements were jerky, uncoordinated, like she was fighting against her own body. She murmured something about going back to bed and walked away without looking back. Her steps echoed down the narrow hallway—quick, desperate, fleeing—then disappeared behind the soft click of a door.

Mark was left there, speechless.

He slowly turned his head toward where she’d been sitting, staring at the empty chair that still held the faint impression of her weight. Then back to the ceiling, where the water stain looked like a map of nowhere.

Silence.

Cherish your life. The words echoed in his head, over and over. When was the last time he’d thought his life was worth cherishing? When was the last time anyone else had thought so?

Then a grin tugged at the corners of his lips, slow and stupid and completely involuntary. He winced from the pain—the cut on his lip protesting—but still let out a soft, half-laugh that sounded more like a sigh.

“What was that?” he muttered to himself, as if dazed. As if she’d just told him the sky was green or that water flowed uphill.

Cherish your life.

He pressed his fingertips to his temples, still grinning despite himself. “Damn it, Elishia.”

The next morning.

When Elishia blinked open her eyes, the first thing she saw was the caramel-colored ceiling. The paint was peeling slightly in one corner, and she’d memorized every crack and stain during her restless night. Then, slowly, she turned to the side, squinting at the nightstand. The electric clock read 11:30 AM, its red digits glowing accusingly.

“Of course,” she muttered, her voice hoarse with sleep. Sleep hadn’t come easy last night—not after the thoughts swirling in her head like a slow-moving storm, exhausting but unresolved and not after what she’d said to Mark. 

From beyond the bedroom door, a loud voice echoed through the thin clinic walls, sharp enough to cut through her self-recrimination.

“What are you doing with the phone? You’re not calling some thugs, are you?!”

Elishia blinked, recognizing the voice immediately. Dr. Chen.

She pushed herself up, running her fingers through her tangled hair and smoothing down her wrinkled pajamas. The fabric was twisted from tossing and turning, and she probably looked like she’d been through a washing machine. 

She opened the door, and the wooden click echoed faintly through the hallway. Just like that, the shouting abruptly stopped.

She walked slowly through the short hallway, her bare feet silent on the cold linoleum, until she reached the edge of the kitchen. The scene that greeted her was almost comical.

There stood Dr. Chen, hands on his hips, scowling hard enough to burn holes in the wall. His disheveled hair stuck up at odd angles, and his rumpled house clothes—a faded t-shirt and pajama pants—made him look even more fed-up than usual. He looked like an angry rooster, all puffed up and ready for a fight.

Mark, reclining on the clinic’s hospital bed, held the old black flip phone Elishia had used a few days ago. He looked remarkably calm considering the death glare being aimed at him, almost amused by the whole situation.

“You’re up,” Dr. Chen said without looking at her, his voice still carrying traces of irritation. “You must be hungry. Come eat.”

He gestured to the small kitchen table where he’d already placed a simple plate: a sunny-side-up egg with the yolk still runny, two slices of toast cut diagonally, three strips of bacon, and a glass of water with condensation beading on the sides. The food was still warm, steam rising gently from the egg.

She quietly nodded, sat, and began to eat. The egg was slightly overcooked around the edges, the toast a bit cold, but it was warm and nourishing, and oddly grounding. She cut the egg carefully, watching the yolk run golden across the white porcelain.

Meanwhile, Dr. Chen rounded back on Mark, pointing a finger like he was about to deliver a sermon. “Now tell me who you’re trying to call. And don’t say ‘friends,’ unless you mean the kind that leave you with a busted lip and nearly dead at my doorstep.”

Mark shrugged, the flip phone still in hand, turning it over and over between his fingers. “Just a few people I know. Might be able to help me figure something out.”

“Oh sure, let me guess. The same people who put you in this shape? You’re lucky you’re still breathing, you know that?” Dr. Chen’s voice rose with each word, his concern disguised as anger in the way only a doctor could manage.

“You know me. I like to take my chances.”

“I swear, if you weren’t already half-dead, I’d throttle you myself. Do you have any idea what you put me through? Showing up here bleeding like a stuck pig, nearly giving me a heart attack?” Dr. Chen threw his hands up in exasperation. “And now you want to call more trouble down on us?”

“It’s not like that, Doc. These are… different people. People who might actually help instead of trying to kill me.”

“Oh, wonderful. That’s exactly what I want to hear. ‘Might actually help.’ Very reassuring.”

Their bickering continued, overlapping and heated—but somehow, it didn’t bother Elishia. If anything, it was oddly comforting. 

She focused on her food, savoring each bite. The bacon was crispy, the way she liked it, and the toast had just enough butter to make it perfect. Dr. Chen might be gruff, but he was a good cook.

Through the muffled arguing, she could hear a bird chirping just beyond the half-open back door. There were the faint shouts of kids playing somewhere nearby, their laughter bright and innocent. The growl of an engine starting, then fading as a car pulled away. More laughter from another house, the clatter of kitchenware from a neighboring window, the sound of normal life continuing all around them.

Despite being far from home, despite the chaos just days prior, Elishia felt—surprisingly—calm.

Is this what peace feels like? she wondered, taking another bite of egg. This simple moment, with the sun coming through the window and the sound of people caring about each other, even if they show it by arguing?

For now, in this moment, peace had found her.

****

That afternoon, after lunch, Dr. Chen left the clinic. “I need to pick up some supplies,” he’d said, grabbing his coat and muttering something about “stubborn patients” and “complicated lives.” The door had closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Elishia alone with her thoughts.

She remained inside, seated at the small kitchen table with a lukewarm cup of tea, flipping through a local newspaper she had found wedged between a few folders in the drawer. The pages were slightly wrinkled and smelled faintly of antiseptic, but she scanned each one carefully—looking, hoping—for anything.

Anything about Trillen. Anything about her.

She’d been searching for days now, whenever she could get her hands on a newspaper or catch a glimpse of the news on Dr. Chen’s old television. But there was nothing. No missing person reports. No alerts. No mention of a foreign woman abducted and missing.

It’s like I never existed, she thought, turning another page. Like I just… disappeared, and nobody noticed.

The tea had gone cold in her hands, but she kept sipping it anyway, needing something to do with her mouth while her mind raced.

That was when the door creaked faintly. She glanced up, her heart jumping into her throat.

At the front of the clinic, just behind the dusty glass door with the peeling CLOSED sign, a figure stood.

A man.

He pushed the door open like he’d done it a dozen times, not hesitating, not knocking. Faded denim jacket that had seen better days, black shirt underneath, cargo pants dusted with grime, and worn blue sneakers that had walked a lot of miles. His short, bleach-blond hair stuck out slightly at the crown, and a small bandage was taped to his left cheek.

His pale green eyes swept the interior, briefly landing on her—expression unreadable, neither hostile nor particularly friendly—but he said nothing. He didn’t introduce himself, didn’t explain why he was there, didn’t even acknowledge her presence beyond that initial glance.

Instead, he moved with casual familiarity toward the bed where Mark lay, now propped up against the wall with pillows, flipping through a magazine half-heartedly. The man dropped onto the chair beside him with a soft thump. The same chair Elishia had occupied last night.

Without a word, they exchanged a fist bump—casual, familiar, like old friends who didn’t need to explain themselves.

“Yo,” the man said, voice low and raspy.

“‘Bout time,” Mark muttered, tossing the magazine aside.

She caught only that. Then their voices dropped to barely above a whisper.

Elishia narrowed her eyes, trying to look like she wasn’t paying attention while straining to hear every word. They leaned in close, speaking in hushed tones that made her skin prickle with unease. Every few seconds she would hear snippets—

“…what? Seriously?”

“…can’t believe it.”

“…you sure it’s him?”

“…been asking questions…”

“…dangerous if…”

But the rest was a blur of whispers and half-formed words that made no sense.

She turned away, uncomfortable with eavesdropping but unable to completely ignore them. The way they spoke—urgent, secretive, concerned—made her stomach churn with worry. Were they talking about her? About what came next?

She tried to focus again on the newspaper, flipping through page after page, front to back, growing more and more restless with each passing article. Local politics she didn’t understand. District curfews that didn’t affect her. Traffic reports for streets she’d never seen. Some celebrity scandal that felt like it was happening in another world.

Finally, she reached the last page.

She stared blankly at the lower corner, where the “Public Notice” section sat in a tiny gray box. Missing pets. Lost wallets. Garage sales. Community meetings.

No missing person reports.

No alerts.

No articles. No mention of a foreign woman abducted and missing.

No name. No photo.

Nothing.

Her heart sank like a stone dropped in deep water.

No one’s looking for me. No one reported me missing. Did no one notice I was gone?

The thought was like a physical blow. She’d been holding onto the hope that someone, somewhere, was searching for her. That her disappearance had mattered to someone. That she’d left enough of a mark on the world that her absence would be felt.

But apparently not.

Her fingers went limp, the paper fluttering silently back onto the table. She stared at it for a long moment, feeling hollow.

She exhaled slowly, pressing her knuckles against her lips to keep from making a sound. Behind her, the low murmur of voices continued, but now they were just a blur in her ears, meaningless noise in the background of her growing despair.

What happens now? she wondered. If no one is looking for me, if no one even knows I’m gone, then what happens to me? Do I just… disappear? Do I become one of those people who vanish without a trace?

The thought terrified her more than anything that had happened so far.