Ever since I got in Kendrick's car and typed my grandmother's address into his phone, the only sounds around us were the engine and the pop music on the radio. The driver did not seem to be responsible for the choice of station.

The sky was gilded by the slowly setting sun, which warmed the glass from the front. After a good ten minutes of watching the trees, houses and some blocks forming an unchanging landscape outside the window, I could not even for a second ignore the tension of my whole body.

I was careful with my hands, arms crossed on my chest. In the side mirror, I checked my expression, as stone cold as it could be. It wasn't related to the person next to me at all.

But when the music in the car suddenly and drastically stopped, I shuddered. I was hoping it wasn't so visible. I looked curiously at Kendrick, who was gripping the steering wheel with both hands. He kept his eyes on the street.

"I heard the police case at the club went down so fast because you guys didn't have any security cameras all this time."

I frowned, not expecting this topic. I myself was informed, leaving work, that with such a mass invasion it would be difficult to find all the guilty, and what the partygoers drank, was not even from the stocks of the club. These were almost intact.

Until now, I didn't know why the police would give up even trying to find parts of the teenagers. There's been an intrusion. However, the lack of cameras must have cost the manager a lot. I think the case has taken on a frivolous tone, losing its seriousness. It became a local prank, probably covered by insurance.

Before my stream of thought could break, Kendrick added:

"What did you do to avoid suspicion with your injuries?" He gave me a brief, questioning look.

Slowly, I realized what the purpose of all this was. But slowly. I took a look at the hands he mentioned. The ends of the gloves were jagged, which I made worse by playing with their strings.

"The vice-manager didn't see me the day after Britt's party because she wasn't there. That's why I called her two days later and told her I'd been injured by a glass I found somewhere near the bar and I wouldn't show up for work." I had thousands of notes before my eyes, not yet turned to ash. "Then when I left the club, I justified it by leaving town early, and they didn't ask me anything. Apparently, it made sense to them." I shrugged. I even felt a shadow of relief as I threw out the last words.

I got a callous nod in response.

I stared at the street, lost in thought. I remembered the rush of the whole group contrasting strongly with my confusion. Emotions hanging in the void momentarily associated with those that I saw in Kendrick's living room very recently. And maybe other questions were floating in my head, but I decided on the simplest one. Which surprised even me.

"What do you study?"

A brief, amused snort brought my gaze back to the slightly relaxed face. The minimally raised corners of his mouth were covered by the sun, while his caramel eyes, focused on the road, hid in the shadows.

However, the shadow did not take away the glow that emanated in them for a split second.

"Swedish Philology." He took his eyes off the street and turned them to me. Without a rush, unlike the speed of the car. And if he figured that I overheard part of the discussion in his living room, it wasn't easy to tell. Maybe he didn't want it to be. Or he just didn't hear anything. "I'm going to sophomore year."

When I heard that, I realized how little I knew about him. About Kendrick's day to day side. About who he was besides the pack's friend and Benjamin's cousin. We've been through all the emotions, the worst situations and total mistrust. That's why a simple, though puzzling, fact threw me off.

Before Kendrick could look at the road, he certainly caught my slightly narrowed eyes and my frown.

"I like foreign languages. And the Scandinavian countries." He shrugged, downplaying his own words. "Culture's nice too. It has its charm."

I nodded, satisfied with the answer. I involuntarily asked:

"Do you speak Swedish?"

He laughed briefly. It was a sound that each time seemed completely new.

"Well, that depends on what you mean by 'speak'." He leaned slightly against the back of the seat, seeing a long, simple, boring road surrounded only by forest in front of us. We rarely passed a car. "But at least I know 'glass' is a Swedish word, too."

I raised my eyebrows at him, surprised.

"Like normal glass?" I asked, not blocking my curiosity. I felt weirdly... calm down. I didn't notice when my emotions changed so drastically. Maybe it was a matter of being isolated in the forest, being between the starting point and the target. In a place unfamiliar, though ordinary.

In another reality.

"Ice cream."

I snorted, suddenly amused. I put my hand over my mouth, eyes wider than usual. I didn't expect this.

"Like I said, I like foreign languages." He was trying to hide his amusement as well. He confined himself to the same calm expression as usual. When my hand dropped as I shook my head, Kendrick said nonchalantly, "What about you? What are you gonna do next?"

And it cooled the atmosphere in the car like a gust of winter wind.

I shifted in my seat, coughing the tension away.

"I'll work." The road ahead seemed extremely interesting. Or at least that's what I wanted it to be. "Just enough to get my own place."

"And Italian?"

Acid spilled all over my chest.

"I'll see in time."

"Your mother-"

"Is not an option," I cut his words firmly, exhaling deeply. My heart was beating harder in my chest.

I looked at Kendrick from the corner of my eye. I got reminded of Britt's and even Valentia's words said recently. I remembered especially my own, which were a kind of promise. I suddenly knew why I was reacting this way. Taking a breath, I added:

"I've got a lot more important things on my mind than Italian," I said a little more gently, though the bitterness was still in my throat. "Okay?"

Ever since I got agitated, Kendrick has kept his eyes on the road, even accelerating the speed a little. His hands were tense, and so was his back. He kept his head high. It was only at my last word that he gave me a brief, exploratory look, finally deciding to give me a simple nod.

I took a deep, invisible breath and leaned against the seat.

It was going to be a long journey.

And every second brought me closer to memories I never wanted to have.

Trembling, rhythmic sounds, noise and warmth on my shoulder. I felt pain in my back, and when I realized I was sitting, I opened my eyes lazily. That's when it hit me that the warmth on my arm was Kendrick's hand shaking my body a little. I fell asleep on the way to...

"We'll be there in about ten minutes."

And that's why I woke up much, much faster.

The sun has gone down and the temperature has definitely dropped. My black pullover seemed almost too thin. It could also be due to the drowsiness and the eternal feeling of coldness associated with it. However, I was convinced that this impression was created primarily from the views outside the window.

I knew the area, and I felt a momentary pinch in my chest. It spread all the way to my stomach, squeezing it in a fistful. I recognized the minimal incline we were taking. I knew the higher the city, the worse the neighborhood. Sumptuous, though wooden houses began to appear already in this place. Surrounded by geometric shrubs, fences and spectacular gardens. I knew it all.

Even the following turns at some point became more familiar.

"Thanks," I spoke up after too long of a break. I fixed the sleeves of my sweater to cover my trembling hands. I didn't believe in the coincidence that brought me to the brink of hell. I didn't want to. Not yet.

"What's your natural hair color?"

Another question, just as astonishing as the others. I frowned, and then relaxed my face, irritated by that one reflex. I shook my head, knowing that it was harder for anyone to tell what was behind the gray shade of my eyebrows.

After all, it was my intention from the beginning.

"As bright as the gray one." I unconsciously reached my hand to the top of my head, smoothing out any sticking out strands. As an answer I got slightly narrowed eyelids of curious eyes.

"So not very bright." And Kendrick went back to driving.

I raised my eyes to the sky, or rather to the roof of the car, amused deep down by his abstract question. It wasn't that drastic, but I felt a shadow of relief. Peace. I had to admit to myself that it was entirely the fault of the person next to me. Unlike every other truth in my life, this one was easy for me to accept.

But the one that became real when we drove up to the old milky-white wooden gate I knew, I could barely bring to consciousness. I even felt like I was temporarily out of breath.

The engine went silent. Kendrick turned his head in my direction, resting it on the headrest. It seemed like he was slightly frowning.

"We will."

He was right. The goal destination. I forced myself to move and unbuckled my seatbelt. My hands were numb, as if they were covered with a second pair of gloves.

"Thanks for the ride," I said shortly, but I didn't stop there. I looked up, not trying to cover it up. It's like I was looking through a crack in a pane of ice. "For everything else, too. Honestly."

And seeing everything, I realized that I was visible as well. A crack in the endless, cold sheet of ice. I was sure of it, because the caramel-honey rays of the sun pierced right through it. To the deep, deep bottom.

"Me too."

But before I could answer, Kendrick threw:

"Call me when you're gonna move stuff out of the apartment, okay?"

I felt even more surprised than I did a second ago. Then I remembered where we were and what was waiting for me.

"I don't even know where I'm gonna move it." I shrugged. "Not yet."

And even though I said it calmly, Kendrick turned around and took a deeper, nervous breath. The issue of my family was not the easiest topic. Especially since the guy saw the apartment turned into ashes by a part of it. That was apparently his biggest problem when it came to me.

After a while, he turned around and said something I shouldn't have expected.

"I'd like to trust you, but you're not making it easy."

Because there were times when the sun's rays only stung and burned.

I opened the car door, blinking a few times. I looked over my shoulder at him, and knowing what I knew, I gave him a slight, though regretful, smile, answering:

"No one's telling you to."

Sapphira Peirce at first glance seemed a little younger than her version of a few months ago. Her gray hair, short to the jaw, gleamed healthily in the afternoon light that fell on her when she opened the front door for me. The same could not be said about the matte, though equally gray stare. It didn't change a bit when she saw me.

Maybe her eyebrows just twitched a little in confusion.

A moment later, when I felt that the air outside was beginning to run out, my grandmother finally moved to let me in. There, on the other hand, the air seemed much heavier than the water. It had a familiar smell. The bag at my side was suddenly an anchor, pulling down and impossible to ignore.

Grandma closed the door quickly, but not with aggression.

A moment of deathly silence.

"I'll make some coffee."

And she passed me without looking back. Her step was slow but perfectly straight. Without any signs of agitation. You could've still felt the gravity beaming from her like an arctic chill. The attitude of a native Peirce.

I exhaled, following her in suspense.

After one turn covered in darkness, I landed in a familiar space. Elegant, perfect, without a trace of dust or crease. Her house reminded me of my apartment: without contrast, vitality or chaos. The significant difference was that the house looked like it was about to be put up for sale.

The living room was separated from the kitchen only by a half-wall covered with marble wallpaper, so when I stood in the middle of the first room, I could still see the stony, wrinkled face staring at the stove.

"Are you still wearing those poor gloves?" she asked, moving to the cabinet with coffee and teas. Her low tone of voice was emotionless, and the question completely unrelated to the real subject.

I crossed my arms on my chest, still tense when the bag was already on the ground. My voice sounded strangely quiet, consumed by the enormity of space.

"It was an accident at work."

And my answer wasn't even close to the point.

Grandma didn't react. Or she found that unnecessary. I guess she got what she wanted from me. She has always been able to manipulate the word so as to put the problem out there as briefly as possible, although not directly. The main role was played by the second depth. Metaphors. Envelopes and trivialities.

And I, oddly enough, was one of those family members who could spot and understand them.

After a minute, two cups and saucers landed on the glass table, practically not making a sound. Silver jewelry on golden hands reflected the light from the big windows.

"You need me, don't you?"

Her rhetorical question got me out of suspension. It was only when she sat down in the chair that I slowly did the same, taking a seat on the couch next to her. A snow-white leather couch.

I crossed my grandmother's eyes and took a chance.

"I didn't make it." Those words burned my throat. Especially because they were true. "Estera found out from my mother where I lived."

To this news, the gray eyes for a moment showed a heavy disappointment. The woman took a deep breath, then slowly sighed. She grabbed the cup, shaking her head.

"They'll never change." And as she took a cautious sip, she added: "Not to mention coming to terms with the changes in your life."

I grabbed the cup myself, but I stuck to just holding its ear. I stared into the black liquid, feeling the tightness in my chest.

"You think I've changed?"

I raised my eyes, never having been so... open to anyone in the family. I was breathing a different air. Lighter. Warmer, but also more palpable.

Grandma's eyelids fluttered a little. She stared at me for a moment with a cleaver-sharp eye, then rose from her seat, fixing the blue, long dress. I didn't know what that meant. At least until she said:

"See for yourself." And she turned, heading for the hall.

With the lump in my throat, I straightened up, exhaled, and followed her. Falling into the same shadow as only a quarter of an hour ago, it turned into pale light. The lamp above our heads emitted a delicate, yet cool color.

Then my eyes fell on my grandmother standing by the switch, and only after that they landed on a small mosaic of photos on my left. I turned uncertainly, a little surprised. Photos with dates, places and family on each of them. Buried at the bottom of consciousness, suddenly on its surface. And that's when I saw it.

I saw myself from eleven years ago.

I saw myself before  e v e r y t h i n g.

And one, salty tear ran down my cheek.


"Head high, wide smile and straight back. Straight back, Georgia!"


I wasn't even ten years old, and even then, I knew how to fool everyone. Even myself. I knew what reputation was. What was public opinion. What was control.

"See?"

I belatedly looked at my grandmother, mentally still in the old reality. She was pointing at my cheek, but she lowered her hand when our eyes met. Her eyes were alive, not as neutral as they always seemed to be.

"You changed with the first tear you didn't wipe away." For the first time since I can remember, she gave me a smile. It was barely visible and weak, but honest.

Then she went back to the living room, leaving me alone.

Alone, but not lonely.

Silence has never been so soothing.

I spotted the red color and I saw another picture. Estera was on it, also eleven years younger. With the same fire in his eyes. With the same confidence. With the same lies running through her veins, as well as my own.

"I don't know, Gi... If you ask... nicel..., then I wi... lp you!"

Led by a strong intuition, I pulled out my phone, writing a message after a second.

I looked at the whole thing and sent a text without hesitation. I turned off the hallway light and headed for the living room.

I was different.

I was lighter.

I was ready.

'Time to clear up a few things. I'm back in the city.'