Two years after the divorce, you moved.

Not far—just far enough that Eleanor’s presence no longer felt baked into the walls. The apartment was smaller, cleaner, unfamiliar. You bought furniture deliberately this time. Nothing shared. Nothing inherited from a life that no longer existed. The silence felt different here. Not heavy. Just empty. You built routines around it.

Mornings were functional. Coffee, work, the quiet hum of responsibility. Evenings passed without expectation. You didn’t look for her. You didn’t wait for messages that wouldn’t come. Whatever you’d been during the marriage, you learned how to be someone else—contained, self-sufficient. That was when Dahlia entered your life. Not dramatically. Not all at once.

She lived in the same building. You met her while carrying boxes up the stairs, hands full, patience thin. She held the door without comment. Smiled when you thanked her. You didn’t think about her again until you saw her in the elevator days later.

Then again in the hallway. Then at the mailboxes. Conversation came easily. Not intimate. Just natural. She didn’t ask questions that felt invasive. When she learned you were divorced, she accepted it without curiosity or judgment. You didn’t tell her much. She didn’t seem to need more. Over time, familiarity grew into something steadier.

A year passed.

When Dahlia invited you to her family reunion, you agreed without hesitation. It felt harmless. Ordinary. You had no reason to believe otherwise. You arrived together. The venue was open, warm, filled with voices layered over one another. Tables stretched across the lawn. Relatives embraced, laughed, called out names. Dahlia moved easily among them, introducing you with pride that made you straighten without realizing it. Then you saw her.

Eleanor stood near the far end of the gathering, posture perfect, expression neutral. She hadn’t changed. Or perhaps she had—just not in a way that time could touch. She noticed you immediately. She didn’t react. Later, you learned quietly that she was Dahlia’s cousin. The information settled uneasily, but you said nothing. Dahlia spoke of her fondly, unaware. You told yourself there was no reason to complicate things. Dinner seating was assigned. You were placed directly across from Eleanor.

She sat down without acknowledging you. Adjusted her napkin. Took a sip of water. Conversation moved around the table, effortless and loud enough to disguise the tension that settled between you. Then her foot brushed against your leg. Brief. Controlled. Intentional. You didn’t look at her. Neither did she.