Chapter 2 — Shadows of the Past

Sara Bennett

Sara's apartment was silent, save for the faint ticking of the minimalist clock on her kitchen wall. It was a space she had curated deliberately, every element an ode to control and precision. The walls were painted in soft gray tones, accented with tasteful artwork—abstract, detached, unerringly clean. Her furniture was modern and angular, devoid of clutter save for a sleek stack of design magazines on the coffee table. Yet tonight, the space pressed against her, the silence heavy, the neatly arranged decor offering no comfort.

She tossed her blazer onto the back of the couch and loosened the collar of her blouse as she crossed the room, her heels clicking softly against the polished wood floors. The dim overhead light cast long shadows that seemed to stretch and shift, as though the room shared in her restlessness. She let out a sharp breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, grabbed a bottle of wine from the counter, and poured herself a glass. With the glass in hand, she sank into the plush armchair by the window, her gaze fixed on the city lights below. The world outside glittered in chaotic brilliance, but up here, she felt suspended, isolated above the rhythm of life.

Her eyes drifted to the far corner of the room, where a woven basket sat beneath a slender console table. Half-hidden, unobtrusive. Deliberately tucked away. She hadn’t touched it in months. Maybe longer. But she knew exactly what it held.

Her chest tightened, and she took a long sip of wine, as though the liquid might steel her against what she already knew she was about to do. Rising, she crossed the room, her movements slow and deliberate. She placed the wineglass on the console table and knelt, her fingers hovering above the basket’s handle. A thousand reasons not to open it rushed through her mind, but none of them stopped her. The act of lifting the lid felt monumental, the smallest motion peeling back years of carefully constructed armor.

The sweater was the first thing she saw.

It was folded neatly, the navy blue fabric faded to a muted hue, the edges yellowed slightly with age. She picked it up gingerly, the soft material brushing her fingertips. The scent of him was long gone, replaced by something faintly musty, but her mind filled the gaps, conjuring the crisp notes of cologne and fresh laundry. She drew it closer, almost reflexively, and pressed it to her face. The ghost of his scent lingered in her memory, warm and familiar.

Her throat tightened as she set the sweater aside and sifted through the basket's contents. A framed photo caught her eye—an image of her and him at an outdoor concert, laughing at something she could no longer recall. Her hair was shorter then, falling just below her chin, and her smile was unguarded, her eyes alight with something she hardly recognized in herself now. He had his arm slung casually around her shoulders, his crooked smile as infectious in memory as it had been in reality.

Her fingers trembled as she traced the edge of the frame, her chest aching with an unbearable mix of longing and regret. She couldn’t remember the last time she had smiled like that.

The photo slipped from her hands, landing with a soft clink against the hardwood floor. She sank back onto her heels, her elbows resting on her knees as she pressed her palms to her face. His voice echoed in her mind, sharp and unyielding: “You’re like a fortress, Sara. Impressive, sure. But impossible to get inside.”

At the time, she’d bristled, throwing his words back at him with cutting precision. He didn’t understand her priorities. He didn’t respect her drive, her purpose. But now, alone in her silent apartment, she wondered if maybe he’d been right all along.

She rose abruptly, shoving the basket away with the toe of her shoe. The photo lay on the floor, face down, but she didn’t pick it up. Instead, she strode into the kitchen, her hand tightening around the wineglass she had left behind. She drained the rest of the liquid in one long sip and set the glass down harder than she intended, the sound sharp against the stillness.

Her gaze snapped back to the basket. She hesitated, the weight of everything—the photo, the sweater, the memories—bearing down on her. Her ex’s words surfaced again, softer this time but no less cutting: “One day, you’re going to look around and realize you’ve built walls so high, no one can climb them. Not even you.”

Her jaw clenched. Move forward, she told herself. Just move forward.

She grabbed a cardboard box from the hall closet and returned to the basket, her movements sharp and mechanical. The photo, the book on contemporary art with its barely cracked spine, the ticket stubs from movie nights and museums—it all went into the box. Each item was a fragment of a life she had meticulously packed away, and she was determined to do it again. Her fingers hesitated on the edge of the sweater, her breath catching. She closed her eyes, willing herself to let it go.

With a sharp exhale, she shoved the sweater into the box and taped it shut with brisk efficiency. She slid the box into the back of the closet, burying it beneath an old set of luggage. Out of sight. Out of mind.

But as she stood there, her hands resting on her hips, the ache in her chest only deepened. Packing the memories away hadn’t eased the pain. If anything, it made the hollow feeling inside her sharper, as though she were trying to erase a part of herself that refused to be forgotten.

Leaning back against the wall, she tilted her head until it rested against the cool plaster. Her eyes burned, but she blinked the sensation away. Her apartment felt colder, emptier than before. She glanced toward the window, the city lights casting faint, fractured reflections across the room. Somewhere down there, people were laughing, living, connecting. And here she was, alone, holding onto the pieces of a past she couldn’t quite let go of.

The soft buzz of her phone broke the silence. She reached for it, expecting a work email or a calendar notification. Instead, it was a text from Priya.

Priya: Fortress doors, Sara. Even the best ones open eventually. Think about it.

A weak laugh escaped her, surprising her. Leave it to Priya to needle her way into Sara’s thoughts at exactly the right moment. She stared at the screen for a moment longer, then set the phone down and crossed to her bedroom, flipping on the bedside lamp. Her laptop sat on the desk, the screen dark. She opened it, the soft glow illuminating her face as she navigated to her email.

The invitation to the retreat stared back at her, the Helvetica font cruelly cheerful.

She clicked on it, scanning the details she already knew by heart. The Bellevue Hotel. A weekend of team-building, networking, and thinly veiled assessments by Amanda and the company’s leadership. The thought of walking in alone, exposed to the scrutinizing gazes of her colleagues, made her stomach churn.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She could decline. Others would. She could claim a scheduling conflict, an unavoidable personal obligation. Amanda might see through the excuse, but what could she really say?

She shut the laptop with a soft click and slid into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. Her mind raced, fragments of conversations and scenarios looping endlessly. Amanda’s pointed remarks. Her ex’s accusations. Priya’s teasing smile. The polished, confident people who would glide effortlessly through the retreat, their lives as seamless as their LinkedIn profiles. And Sara, standing on the sidelines, trying desperately not to crack.

Her last thought before sleep claimed her was both simple and terrifying.

She needed a plan—anything to keep the cracks from showing.