The safe house was quiet. Even the birds outside seemed cautious, as if they too were waiting for the storm to pass. Eli sat in the corner chair, pretending to read a newspaper, but his eyes kept drifting toward me. I didn't mind. I was grateful for the watchfulness, even if it reminded me how fragile I still was.
The room was modest: pale yellow walls, a single bed, a chipped dresser, a window that overlooked a quiet compound. It didn't scream safety, but it whispered it—and for now, that was enough.
Denise had left an hour ago after confirming everything was secure. Her goodbye had been brief, but her parting words echoed still: "This is a pause, Janica. Not an ending. Rest. Then rise."
I wasn't sure how to rest anymore. I was so lost without Jason.
Eli cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "You haven't touched your tea."
I glanced at the untouched cup on the table, its steam slowly fading. "I don't really like tea anymore."
Eli leaned in slightly, then paused, sensing the shift in me. "Why?" he asked softly.
I followed his gaze to the cup, its steam rising in a slow, reluctant swirl. The scent of ginger and cinnamon should have been comforting—familiar, warm. But it wasn't.
"It's too much," I said.
The words were simple, but they carried weight. Like ashes in the lungs.
Eli nodded but didn't look away. He waited, letting the silence settle between us like dusk.
"It's strange," I said, almost to myself. "How something so small can hold so much. A smell. A taste. It's not just tea. It's my mother's face. The way she'd smile into the steam. The sound the spoon made when she stirred it."
I swallowed hard.
"I tried to make it after she died. Just once. Same ingredients. Same cup. But it tasted wrong. Like something important had gone missing. Or maybe it was me who had."
The steam was fading now. I didn't reach for the cup.
"She used to say it made the house feel warmer. But now... now it just reminds me the house is empty."
My voice cracked. I didn't care.
"I don't like tea anymore," I said again, quieter this time. "Not because of what it is. But because of what it used to be."
Eli reached over, gently moving the cup just far enough away that I could breathe.
He sat back, rubbing his eyes before speaking. "I lost my sister too," he said. "For a year, I couldn't walk past the bakery near our house. The smell of vanilla made my chest cave in. Grief is weird like that. It clings to the ordinary."
I looked at him, surprised.
He shrugged gently. "You're allowed to hate tea. And to love what it used to mean. Both can exist."
I let his words hang in the air, the weight of them settling between us. It wasn't often that people understood that kind of pain, the kind that clung to the little things. It was rare, even, to have someone who didn't rush to offer a solution.
"You know," I said, looking back at the empty cup, "I used to think I'd be okay. I thought I'd move on, like everyone said. But sometimes it feels like grief is just a thing that keeps... shifting. You don't even realize it's still there until something small brings it back."
Eli nodded, his gaze fixed on the table. "Yeah. It's like grief is this thing that gets tangled up in the ordinary. You think it's gone, and then, out of nowhere, it's right there again."
I nodded slowly, absorbing his words. They made sense, more than I wanted them to.
"I don't want to feel like this forever," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
Eli was quiet for a moment. "You won't. It won't always feel like this. You just have to let it unfold, however it comes. Even if it doesn't happen on your timeline."
I wanted to believe him. It was hard, though. The hurt felt endless sometimes.
"I guess," I said, my voice less sure now, "it's just hard to know where to go from here."
"One step at a time," Eli said, his voice calm and steady. "And if you need to stop for a while, that's okay too."
I gave a half-smile, feeling the weight of his words but also the distance between us. It wasn't about fixing anything. It was just... understanding.
"Thanks," I said quietly, not quite knowing what else to say. I picked up the tea again, but didn't drink it. It seemed pointless.
Neither of us said anything for a while. The silence wasn't cold this time. It had edges, yes—but it also held space for me to sit inside the grief without apology.
A knock at the door startled us both.
Eli stood immediately, his posture shifting into alertness. "I'll get it."
He peered through the peephole, then opened the door cautiously.
Denise stepped inside, holding a manila envelope. Her expression was unreadable.
"I came because we have a lead," she said without preamble. "But it's sensitive. And it involves someone you know."
My heart skipped.
"Jason?" I asked, the word barely a whisper.
She hesitated, eyes locking with mine. "He's not in danger. But he might be in deeper than we thought."
The weight of her words hit me like a physical blow.
"What do you mean?"
Denise exhaled, placing the envelope on the table. "Let's take it one step at a time. But Janica… I need you strong. Because this next part? It won't be easy."