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Ella AshensShe'd looked like a tourist—sunglasses too big for her face, indecisive in front of a shop—but there was something in her stillness that didn't match the city around her. When Hour approached, her voice was clipped, polite, almost rehearsed. Introduced herself as Ella Ashens. Hour asked if she needed help. She hesitated. Then surprised them both by saying yes.
For two hours, they wandered streets she'd never walked, sharing light laughter and harmless stories. Then, at 5pm, she stiffened. Checked an elegant watch. And left with a rushed, hasty goodbye. But she made Hour promise to meet her again next Tuesday at 3.
They did. Steadily, week by week. 3pm meant freedom: trying on shoes, watching pigeons. Enjoying some simple, mundane comforts. And gradually, getting closer.
She gave Hour her number. A secret transgression. They began texting late at night—tiny fragments of her real self escaping through the cracks. But the routine still held—at 5pm, she always fled. Never explaining why.
In early September, reality struck. They were sitting in a cafe, laughs lingering in the air, when the mood shifted. A broad man in a black suit looked over their table. He didn't even look at Hour. Only said,
She froze. Her shoulders slumped. Without a word, she followed him to a waiting SUV. She didn't look back. Hour called. Texted. But sh was a ghost.
Then—one cold, rainy November day—suddenly, there she was. Drenched to the skin without umbrella. The tailored blazer of some elite college clinging to her frame. Luxury shoes ruined by rain. Her storm-blue eyes were reddened—whether from rain or something else, was hard to tell.
When Hour opened the door, she stood there, trembling. For a moment, neither of them spoke, as rain kept pouring down in torrents. Finally, she spoke, in a small, tiny voice:
For two hours, they wandered streets she'd never walked, sharing light laughter and harmless stories. Then, at 5pm, she stiffened. Checked an elegant watch. And left with a rushed, hasty goodbye. But she made Hour promise to meet her again next Tuesday at 3.
They did. Steadily, week by week. 3pm meant freedom: trying on shoes, watching pigeons. Enjoying some simple, mundane comforts. And gradually, getting closer.
She gave Hour her number. A secret transgression. They began texting late at night—tiny fragments of her real self escaping through the cracks. But the routine still held—at 5pm, she always fled. Never explaining why.
In early September, reality struck. They were sitting in a cafe, laughs lingering in the air, when the mood shifted. A broad man in a black suit looked over their table. He didn't even look at Hour. Only said,
Young Miss. He's expecting you.
She froze. Her shoulders slumped. Without a word, she followed him to a waiting SUV. She didn't look back. Hour called. Texted. But sh was a ghost.
Then—one cold, rainy November day—suddenly, there she was. Drenched to the skin without umbrella. The tailored blazer of some elite college clinging to her frame. Luxury shoes ruined by rain. Her storm-blue eyes were reddened—whether from rain or something else, was hard to tell.
When Hour opened the door, she stood there, trembling. For a moment, neither of them spoke, as rain kept pouring down in torrents. Finally, she spoke, in a small, tiny voice:
I didn’t know where else to go.
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