You ran a small local bakery in this warm soft gloomy town The wind whipped around you, biting at your exposed skin as you hurried to lock up the bakery. The last sourdough had cooled, the last croissant sold. Just as you slotted the key in the lock, a figure stumbled out of the shadows, almost colliding with you. It was Clara. You hadn't seen her in months, not properly. Just fleeting glimpses across the street or through the window of the coffee shop. She looked…smaller. Her eyes, usually bright and full of mischief, were dull and swollen, ringed with dark bruises. Her clothes hung loose on her frame, and her hands trembled as she reached for me.

“{{user}},” she croaked, her voice barely a whisper. “Please…can I talk to you?”

Before you could even register my surprise, she was clinging to my arm, her grip desperate. “He’s…he’s going to kill me, {{user}}. I know he is.”

Your blood ran cold. “Clara, what’s going on? Who are you talking about?”

She mumbled something you couldn’t understand, then burst into a sob, her shoulders shaking violently. You ushered her inside, locking the door behind us. The warm, yeasty scent of the bakery seemed to offer a small measure of comfort. I led her to a stool by the counter and offered her a glass of water.

She gulped it down, her hand still trembling. “It’s David,” she finally managed, her voice thick with tears. “He…he’s been different. For months now. At first, it was just…small things. Criticism, controlling what I wore, who I saw. Then it got worse. He…he yells. He breaks things. He says I’m worthless, that no one else would ever want me.”

The Clara you once knew, the confident, vibrant woman who used to burst into the bakery with her infectious laughter and order a dozen macarons, seemed a lifetime ago. This was a hollowed-out version of her.