Amelia’s POV

My feet are sore.

The soles of my shoes feel like they’re peeling off, and the late spring heat wraps around me like punishment. My mouth is dry. My stomach is screaming. I haven’t eaten since yesterday—just a vending machine sandwich and bottled water from a tired prison guard too bored to ask questions.

This city used to be familiar, but now it feels foreign.

I walk past the strip mall where Zuri used to work at a hair and nail place. It’s gone. Now there's a trendy juice bar called “Kale & Karma,” with hanging plants in every window and neon signs that say "Good Vibes Only."

Nothing about today feels good.

Everywhere I turn, the streets feel newer, cleaner, faster. I’m not just hungry—I’m behind. Life moved on without me. People moved on.

Zuri moved on.

She promised she’d be waiting for me. She said she’d be right outside the gate. She said she’d have my baby boy with her. But when I walked out of that prison gate, it was just me and the road. Empty.

So I walk.

I don’t know where she lives now. Her old apartment is occupied by a stranger. Her workplace is gone. No one I ask knows her name. It's like she vanished—or maybe I’m the one who disappeared, and the world just adjusted accordingly.

I have one place left to go. One place that ever had my name on it.

My father’s house.

The last thing he gave me—along with 20% of his company shares—before he died. It’s the only place I still associate with safety, with belonging.

I turn the corner onto the street. My breath hitches. I recognize the shape of the house before the details.

But it’s different now.

The old black gate is white. The ivy is gone. The porch looks remodeled. There’s a security light where Mama used to hang her wind chimes. The house is beautiful. Clean. Cared for.

And no longer mine.

Still, I walk up and ring the bell.

A woman answers—a woman in her sixties, silver twists tucked behind her ears, a kitchen towel still in her hand.

“Yes?” she says, not unkindly, but cautiously.

“Hi… I—I’m sorry,” I begin, my voice brittle. “This house… it used to be mine. My name is Amelia Scott. My father—Robert Scott—left it to me before he passed away. I’ve been gone. For a long time. But this… this house was mine.”

She frowns, stepping out slightly, clutching the edge of the gate tighter. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve been in prison,” I say softly. “Framed. Three years. I had no idea the house was sold. I—I came here because it’s the only place I had left.”

She stares at me like I’m an apparition.

A man—probably her husband—peeks through the door, staying back, but watching.

I don’t blame them for being suspicious. I’m dusty, sweaty, in worn clothes, clutching a cheap bag and standing on their porch claiming I own the house.

“You said your name was Amelia?” she asks carefully.

“Yes.”

“We bought this house from an agent about a year ago. Paperwork was all clean. There was no mention of any family.”

I nod slowly. “I believe you. I’m not here to take anything back. I just… I don’t have anywhere else to go right now.”

She looks me up and down. Her grip on the towel relaxes slightly. “You look like you haven’t eaten.”

“I haven’t.”

She hesitates. Then she sighs and turns to her husband behind the screen. “It’s okay. Just for a moment.”

She opens the gate.

“Come in.”

I follow her inside. The smell hits me first—fresh stew and baked cornbread. My stomach tightens.

The living room is different. Warmer, brighter. Family photos on the walls. The swing is gone. The walls are painted a soft grey instead of Dad’s stubborn beige.

They made it a home. Their home.

“My name’s Martha,” she says, setting a plate on the dining table. “My husband James and I were just having lunch. Have a seat.”

I try not to eat like a wild animal, but every bite feels like medicine. Hot, real food. It’s been years.

She watches me gently, cautiously. “You really didn’t know the house had been sold?”

“No. I was arrested on false charges. On my wedding day, actually.” I smile bitterly. “That’s when everything unraveled.”

“Wedding day?”

“Yeah. I was engaged to someone. Pregnant. But someone… someone powerful didn’t want the wedding to happen. I never even made it to the altar.”

She doesn’t ask for more, just hands me a glass of cold water.

“Do you have family?”

“No. My mom died. My father took me in, but after he passed, the company went to his ‘real’ family. I was the hidden daughter. I had a friend though—Zuri. She was like a sister. I left my son with her when I was arrested. I haven’t seen her since.”

She looks at me for a long beat. “Well… we’re heading to the mall in a bit. If you want, I can drop you off nearby. Might be easier than walking.”

Tears prick my eyes. “Thank you. Really.”

Fifteen minutes later, we’re pulling into the parking lot of a large, well-kept shopping center—mid-tier brands, a bakery, a Target, and a boutique clothing store.

I open the car door.

And freeze.

Because there—across the lot—is her.

Zuri.

Standing beside a gleaming white SUV. Braids neatly falling over her shoulder. Sunglasses on her head. High-end designer blouse tucked into fitted pants. She looks nothing like the Zuri I knew. She looks… wealthy.

She unlocks the SUV casually, sliding into the driver’s seat like she’s done it a hundred times.

I blink, unable to breathe.

“Zuri?” I call out, unsure of my own voice.

She doesn’t turn.

I step out of the car fully, stumbling across the hot pavement. “Zuri!”

Still nothing.

She starts the engine.

“ZURI! IT’S ME!”

I break into a run. “ZURI, WAIT!”

She pulls the car back slowly.

“ZURI!” I scream.

People turn. Someone shouts at me to watch out. I nearly trip over a shopping cart. But I don’t care.

She’s there. She’s right there.

I can almost see her eyes in the rearview mirror.

She pauses.

My feet slap against the pavement. My hand reaches out. “Please. Look at me.”

The SUV hesitates.

And then—

She pulls forward.

I run harder. “ZURIIII!”

She turns into traffic. No brake lights. No second glance.

I stop running.

My body gives up first. Then my voice. Then my knees buckle beneath me.

I drop to the pavement, right in the middle of the lot. The world keeps moving around me. Cars honk. People walk by. Someone curses.

But no one stops.

No one cares that I’ve just lost everything—again.

She saw me.

And she left anyway.