chapter 12

Blossom packed away her past like it weighed fifty pounds.

Each folder she stacked felt heavier than the last. Stories from childhood, horror tales from her early teens, poetry that tasted like rusted wire and heartache—they all went back into the dusty box like bones in a casket. She sealed the lid, placed it in the crevice of her closet where dust kissed secrets, then paused.

Her room was still cloaked in dim grey light. The curtains remained shut, and the stale morning air from her cracked window felt cold against her damp cheeks.

She glanced at the clock. 9:03 a.m.

Her body finally whispered for sleep. Not gently. Not like a lullaby. More like the collapse after emotional war.

Blossom walked across her room, flicked off the lamp, and sank into bed fully clothed. The sweater May had given her still smelled faintly like weed and incense. The scent clung to her like memory. Her heartbeat slowed as the silence enveloped her—not peaceful silence, but the kind that feels padded with something just beneath it. Thoughts churned, her limbs ached, but her eyelids gave in. And she slept.

She slept like the dead. No dreams. No interruptions. Just a black fog that sucked her into itself.

Time passed in strange patterns—hours melting together, sun slipping past the horizon without her noticing.

She stirred only once around 4 p.m., tangled in her sheets, lips dry, throat tight.

Her body screamed thirst. Her mind whispered grief.

Then she slept again.

It was 9:47 p.m. when her eyes fluttered open.

She blinked slowly, adjusting to the darkness. The house was... too quiet.

Not peaceful.

Just vacant.

Blossom sat up, hair wild, sweater wrinkled, skin clammy. The air felt wrong. Empty. Hollow.

She rubbed her eyes, fumbled for her phone, checked her notifications. There were no new messages. Which was strange.

Usually her mother would've blown it up with voicemails, emotional spirals wrapped in texts that bounced between apology and accusation.

She walked to her door and opened it. Her room looked the same. But everything else...

Her mother's door stood ajar, light off.

The bed untouched.

No scent of gin. No stifled sobs. No chaos.

Blossom's stomach twisted. She descended the stairs quickly, barefoot, heart thudding faster.

The living room? Silent.

The kitchen? Clean—still how she'd left it.

But one detail screamed.

The car was gone.

She rushed to the front window, peeled open the curtains, stared into the driveway.

Empty.

No keys.

No note.

No sign.

She turned toward the staircase, her eyes burning.

"No," she whispered.

The word echoed off the walls like it didn't belong.

The house was still the same. The mess she'd cleaned hadn't reappeared. Her mother's ashtray hadn't moved. The bottles hadn't refilled themselves.

But her mother was gone.

Blossom stood in the middle of the living room like a child waiting for a parent who promised to return... but didn't.

And for the first time that day—after folders, poems, nightmares, and coffee...

She didn't want to write.

She wanted to scream.

But she stayed silent.