The walls of Ashley's childhood home were thin-too thin to contain sickness, fear, or the slow crumble of hope. The chipped window frames let in more dust than breeze, and the ceiling fan above spun with a lazy rhythm that mocked her restlessness.
She sat beside her mother's bed wringing out a cloth in the bowl of lukewarm water on the nightstand. Her mother's fever had risen again, the third time this week. Ashley pressed the damp cloth to her mother's forehead and studied the face she loved more than anything-pale, gaunt, yet still somehow radiant in its gentleness. If only love could pay hospital bills.
Mikaela stirred beneath the faded sheets, eyes fluttering open. "You're still here," she said, voice like cracked glass. "Where else would I be?" Ashley whispered, brushing stray curls off her Mikaela's temple. "You know I hate leaving you alone when you are burning up like this."
A ghost of a smile tugged at Mikaela's lips. "You have always been stubborn." Ashely didn't respond. She just dipped the cloth in the bowl of water again and let the silence hold everything else.
She was twenty-two but felt forty. In another life, she would have been a nurse by now-or maybe studying literature in a cozy library far away from leaking roofs and overdue notices. But instead, she was here-watching the woman who once braided her hair now too weak to lift her own glass of water. They used to laugh in this room, dance to old records, eat mangoes in the bed, and even pretend the world was kind. Now, all Ashley could hear was the whir of the fan and the heaviness of what she couldn't fix. Her gaze shifted to the drawer beside the bed. It was packed with unopened envelopes-final notices, loan demands, medical forms and other documents she could no longer bear to read.
She had taken double shifts at the diner, cleaned her neighbor's homes, and had even sold two of her mom's jewelry sets. It still wasn't enough. And time on the other hand, wasn't waiting.
Mikaela reached for her hand suddenly, startling her. "Ash," she rasped. She continued, "If something happens-"
"Don't" Ashley said firmly. "Don't say that."
"You have to listen to me." Her mother's grip was weak but determined. "You are not meant to wither in this house, child.Promise me that if the right door opens, you will walk through it. Even if it scares you."
Ashley blinked away the sting and tears behind her eyes and muttered, "I am not going anywhere."
Mikaela sighed. "That is what frightens me."
They said no more. The quiet settled like dust, curling around the furniture, stretching into the corners of Ashley's chest.
Later, long after Mikaela drifted into a fevered sleep, Ashley stood by the window, arms wrapped tightly around her waist. Streetlamps cast long shadows over cracked pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a train wailed and a child cried. This life was small, but it was hers. It held memories, heartbreak and warmth. Still, she couldn't stop the nagging question: What if this is all there ever is?
Knock. Knock. Knock.
She jumped.
The knock came again-firm and deliberate.
She tiptoed to the front door and peered through the peephole. It was a man in a delivery uniform. He stood on the porch, holding an envelope. She opened the door just enough to see him clearly.
"Yes?"
"You're Ashley Patterson?"
"Yes."
"This came for you earlier. The boss said to make sure to get it delivered tonight. Said it was urgent"
She took the envelope, eyeing him warily. "Who's your boss?"
He shrugged. "Didn't say, just told me to bring it straight to you."
And with that, he turned and walked away into the night.
Ashley shut the door. Her heart was thudding as she examined the envelope. Heavy paper. No return address. Her name written in sharp, elegant cursive. It smelled faintly of sandalwood and something richer, something she would have never been able to afford. She hesitated, then tore it open.
Inside was a letter printed on expensive parchment.
Miss Patterson,
You have been recommended through a private channel. A temporary live-in position has
opened at Cross' Estate in Connecticut. The role is highly compensated. Discretion is
essential. Immediate start.
If interested, report to the estate by Monday.
-J.C.
Her knees nearly buckled. "Cross?"
The name struck like a chord in her memory. Jake Cross. Billionaire. Reclusive. Cold-eyed heir to one of the richest families on the East Coast. She had seen a picture of him once in a magazine.-sharp suit, jaw like stone, gaze like winter.
What would someone like him want with someone like her?
She reached back into the envelope and found a printed train ticket. First class. One-way.
Her fingers trembled.
She should have thrown it away. Laughed hysterically at it. Called it a scam. Bu her heart thudded with something that frightened her more than poverty. Curiosity.
She glanced back towards her mother's room.
How could she leave? Even for a little while? What if the worst happened while she was gone? But what if this letter was what her mother meant? The door she needed to walk through?
What if, just maybe, this was her only chance to save them both?