His name was Simon. He chose not to stay.
The bus came. She got on. She found a seat by the window. She watched the city go by and let herself feel the thing she always felt when she was about to start something new: a small, steady hope. The kind that does not shout. The kind that simply shows up every time, no matter how many times the world has given it reason not to.
Whatever this new job was, she would do it well. She always did.
Monday came the way Mondays always do, quickly and without asking if you were ready.
Rebecca was up at 5:30. She showered, dressed in clean, simple clothes, and made herself a small breakfast, bread and tea, eaten standing at her kitchen counter because her table was covered with things she had been sorting through the night before. She had wanted to make sure she left her apartment tidy before starting the new job. It felt important somehow, like beginning something properly.
She looked at her mother’s photograph before she left. “Wish me luck,” she said quietly.
The photograph said nothing, of course, but the woman in it was still laughing, still tilting her head back, still looking free.
Rebecca picked up her bag and went downstairs.
She arrived at the villa at 6:55, 5 minutes early. She pressed the bell and waited, her bag over her shoulder, the morning air still cool and smelling faintly of wet grass from somewhere nearby.
The gate opened, but it was not Grace. It was Mr. Caleb himself, dressed already in work trousers and a white shirt, reading glasses pushed up on his head.
He looked at her, then at the small watch on his wrist, then back at her.
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