After my morning shift, I change out of the apron and take the bus across town to the hospital.
The psychiatric ward is quiet in that eerie way that hospitals often are. Sterile. Muted. The lights overhead buzz faintly as I walk the corridor to her room.
My mother is by the window when I arrive, staring out at the gray winter sky. Her hair is thinner now, her cheeks more hollow. She used to get the best treatment for her hair and face but now ... I'm just glad she's still alive. She turns when she hears me.
"Cass," she says, a little breathless. "You came."
I smile and sit by her. "Of course I did."
We talk—more like I talk, she listens, hopefully. I tell her about the cafe, about the pastries and regulars, about Noah. I leave out the head-patting and weird flutters, obviously.
"He's calm," I say, "knows how to teach and manage stuff. Doesn't rush me."
She nods slowly, like she's hearing the words but storing them somewhere far away.
"How about you, Mom? Have you eaten yet today? What did you eat?" I ask softly.
It takes her one minute before answers, "Tasteless porridge."
I hold my breath. She probably never ate this kind of foods before. Even when she was sick, she got into the VVIP room, got the best treatment, the best doctor, and the best food. And she had been living like that her whole life. I can't imagine the agony she felt. Mine is barely easy to cope.
Her fingers twitch nervously in her lap. I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone to show her a photo of the drink I made earlier. Just a blurry latte with half a heart.
"Not bad, right? Noah taught me how to make it yesterday. He gave me solid 8 for this latte."
She doesn't look at the screen. Her gaze has locked onto something else—my wallpaper. It's a picture of Knox, the golden retriever I used to have, taken back when life was easier. When we still had Evergreen Palace, still had status and comfort and sanity. Everything.
Her whole body tenses. "Why do you still have that picture?"
I blink, startled. "It's just Knox. I miss him."
Something in her snaps. Her hand shoots out, grabs the phone, throws it across the room—thankfully it lands on her bed.
"Stop pretending like we're still those people!" she screams.
The sudden shift in her voice freezes me. The anger, the grief, the panic—it all bursts out of her like a storm.
"It's all gone! All of it! The house, the name, your father—" she chokes on the word. "And you sit there with your stupid coffee job and act like it's enough?"
"Mom—"
"We were Evergreen! We were everything! And now you smile like it's fine—"
The door bursts open. Nurses rush in, trying to calm her, to hold her back as she starts knocking over chairs, tossing pillows, screaming like she can will our old life back into existence.
I stand there, helpless. My heart crushed.
One of the nurses gently pulls me away. "It's best if you go for now. We'll call you later."
I leave after I get my phone.
***
I walk home. Literally walking.
It takes an hour, maybe more. My body aches—feet sore from standing all morning, head pounding with everything I don't want to think about. But the walk helps. Kind of. The cold slaps me awake. The wind stings my eyes and I pretend it's not from crying.
I pass closed storefronts and glowing windows. The sky above is a dull slate, no stars tonight. Somewhere, music plays faintly from a second-floor apartment—a jazz record, scratchy and nostalgic. It reminds me of old dinner parties at the estate. Of candlelight, polished silverware, my parents dancing in the living room. Another lifetime.
By the time I reach my tiny studio, I'm exhausted. I toss my coat aside, plug my cracked phone in to charge, and sit on the edge of the bed.
I failed her. Again.
I know it's not my fault, but it feels like it is. Like if I were stronger, smarter, richer, more something, I could've saved her. Saved all of us. If only I didn't postpone my plans to saving and open a business ....
I lean forward, burying my face in my hands. The silence of the room isn't comforting. It's oppressive. A reminder that I'm alone. No bark at the door, no hum of luxury appliances, no scent of Mom's perfume lingering in the hallway. No maids. No personal driver. No Knox.
The phone buzzes beside me. I lift my head. A message from Noah:
| Hope you're resting. Don't overthink too much tonight
Simple. Thoughtful. Like he knows I'm struggling something right now.
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. I could type something. Say thank you. Say I visited my mom but it ended up bad. Say I'm not okay.
But instead, I press the call button.
It rings once.
Then he picks up. "Knox?" I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. "Hey," he says again, voice gentle. "You alright?"
I should hang up. I shouldn't have called. I don't even know why I called him. But just hearing him speak—the calm steadiness, the softness in his tone—grounds me.
"Yeah," I say finally. "Just needed to hear a familiar voice."
There's a pause. Then, "I'm glad you called."
He doesn't ask me what happened. Doesn't press. Just waits.
We don't talk much after that. Just silence. And his breathing. And mine. The kind of silence that feels like being held.
I lie down on the bed, phone still at my ear. My room is dim, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside. Shadows move gently across the walls as cars pass by. It's cold, but I don't move to get under the thin blanket.
Noah's presence on the other end is enough. I wonder what's he doing. But I'm too tired to ask.
I close my eyes. Listen to the soft static of the call, the occasional rustle from his end. Maybe he's lying down too. Maybe he's just watching the ceiling like I am.
Eventually, he speaks.
"You know ... you're doing alright, Knox."
I don't respond. But my throat tightens.
"I mean it," he adds, "you show up. You care. Even when it's hard. That counts for something."
A breath escapes me—not quite a sob, but close.
I think of mom, of her screams, her shaking hands, the broken look in her eyes. I think of dad, locked behind cold bars. I think of the media, the headlines, the betrayal, the fall.
I think of how far I've fallen.
But somehow, tonight, the weight is slightly less unbearable.
Because someone picked up.
Because someone stayed on the line.
Somewhere in the middle of it, I fall asleep.