Chapter Two: Greyville to Nowhere

The Greyville train station sat at the edge of town like a forgotten thought — half-lit, half-dead, and smelling like yesterday's tears. Ellen stood there in the early morning dew, her backpack hugged tight to her chest, heart racing as the train pulled in with a low, tired sound.

“Final boarding” was heard through a crackling speaker , which brought Ellen back from her thoughts . Her legs almost didn’t move. Almost. But then she pictured Julia smirking from the top of the stairs, imagined Jezebel spraying that awful perfume in the kitchen like she was cleansing the space of Ellen 's presence, and she moved. One step, then the other. Like it her feets were to heavy for her to move.

The bus squeaked open , without the rusted door gaining people’s attention. The driver didn’t even look at her. She didn’t blame him. She was just another run away girl with too-big eyes and nowhere to go.

Inside, the train was mostly empty. A man in a trucker cap snored with his head against the window, his guitar wedged between the seats. A woman four rows up was having a loud, messy call over speakerphone. Ellen found a spot near the back and slid carefully into seat without uttering a word.

The seat scratched her pale white skin through the thin cotton of her shirt, and the window beside her was misty at the edges, as if even the glass was too tired to stay clear.

As the engine rumbled to back to life and the lights of Hollow Ridge began to blur behind them, Ellen stared out at the highway, her face expressionless and emotionless.

No tears.

She’d run out of one after crying on her mother’s deathbed, those days ago.

There was no goodbye letter left behind. No dramatic farewell. Just a silent walk down the varandah steps and into the night. Her father's voice still echoed in her ears — that offhand “quit whining” — like her she was being dramatic for no reason.

Now, with the town shrinking behind her, she cringed at the thought of leaving her home, all she could think was: “I’m really gone”.

She didn’t feel brave. Or free. Or strong. She felt scared and empty. Like a bottle someone had drained and tossed on the side of the road and is of no use .

Still, emptiness was better than what she’d left behind.

She reached into her bag, pulling out a creased piece of notebook paper she’d folded six times. On it were scribbled bus routes, hand-copied from the one of her dad’s books in the attic. Next to it, on the same wrinkled page, was a name circled three times: The Golden Inn — Louisville. $20 per night. Pay cash.

That was the plan. That tiny sliver of a plan and hope.

The train drove through towns she didn’t know their names and never knew existed. Fast food signs and grocery store passed like ghosts. At some point, she leaned her forehead against the cool glass and let her eyes close.

The sun was high when she arrived. Louisville buzzed around her like a living thing. It smelled like car exhaust, sidewalk food, and people going places she could barely imagine. She wasn’t used to buildings that touched the sky or sidewalks filled with strangers who didn’t make eye contact. Everyone seemed to to be going on their daily basis and have somewhere to be — and no time for persons like her.

The Golden Inn was exactly what she expected — small, old, and venerable building. The neon sign out front flickered , as if to welcome her, spelling out GOL DEN I N in a jittery stutter.

The front desk clerk was a woman in her sixties wearing slippers and watching a soap opera on a tiny television. She didn’t ask for ID. Just held out her hand for the money, slid a key across the counter, and said, “Room nine.”

The room smelled like bleach and conquered. The bed sagged in the middle, and the lamp flickered when it was turned it on. But the lock on the door clicked shut, and no one yelled from the other side. For the first time in what felt like forever, after her mother’s death, she felt safe.

She dropped her bag on the floor, kicked off her shoes with so much force, which sent it flying across the room, and she collapsed face-down onto the bed without even pulling back the covers.

She slept for 15 hours straight.

The next morning hit her like a slap on the face. Her muscles ached. Her mouth was dry and her stomach grumbling for food. But she was still here. All alone. And still free.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her legs dangling from the cliff of the bed, staring at the window as sunlight filtered through a gap in the curtain. She could hear the city outside — a siren in the distance, someone arguing on the street, the low rumble of a bus pulling away.

She got dressed in silence, brushing her hair with her fingers, tying it up the way her mother used to — twist, wrap, tuck it.

Her resume wasn’t a real resume. It was a single page with her name, a few words like “dependable” and “fast learner,” and the babysitting gig she did for the twins next door back in Hollow Ridge, which she scribbled on the night of her departure.It felt like a lie. But it was all she had.

She walked up the streets for hours. Every time she passed a window that said “Help Wanted” or “Now Hiring,” she stepped inside, smiled as big as she could, and handed over that little white sheet of paper.

The rejections came quiet and fast. Some didn’t call back. Some said she needed experience. One manager looked her up and down and said, “We’re looking for someone more polished.”

Whatever that meant.

By day three, she’d eaten half her stash of peanut butter crackers and was down to twelve dollars. By day four, she seriously considered going back home — just showing up on the porch and pretending none of it happened.

But then she remembered the gown. Stuffed in the trash like it was nothing.

She kept walking.

On the sixth day, with sore feet and a heart hanging by a thread, she stepped into The Water Crest Hotel.

It smelled like lemons and money.

The marble floors were so shiny she could see her reflection in them. She almost turned around — thought there’s no way a place like this would want someone like her.

But then a woman behind the front desk looked up. Short red hair. Sharp eyes. No time for nonsense.

“You here to apply?”

Ellen nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You drop things when you’re nervous?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You know how to shut up when rich folks are acting like jerks?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Start tonight. Uniform’s in the back.”

Just like that.

No forms. No interview. Just a chance.

She stood there for a second, not sure if she should thank the woman or cry.

“You still here?” the woman snapped. “Go eat something. You’re too skinny. And don’t be late.”

That night, Ellen put on the stiff black uniform and pinned on a name tag that said “E.L.”

No last name. No story. Just two letters and a new beginning.

And that’s when she met Nova and Trisha — two girls who walked through luxury like they’d been born in it, even though Ellen knew better.