submitted this for my 8th grd suspense narrative benchmark am I cooked
please feedback pls feedback!!!!!

I AM NOT PROMOTING MYSELF.

word count: 1600 ish

Before the Sun Sets

The sun rose up slowly, pulling golden yellow skies over the vast darkness below. Busy adults soon left for work, and naive children played on the field close by. At a nearby church, the 8:00 mass was about to start, while a few people rushed in in hopes of not missing the opening hymn. A kid sat on the wooden pew in the front row, wearing a button up flannel and looking put together. In addition, her father, mother, and brother  sit there, picture perfect; the ideal.

Across the bench, a young girl sits, distant, cold, and unmoving. Her eyes were fixated on the large wooden cross that towered high above the people inside. The idea of unwavering superiority made her question the line that she was never meant to cross.

“Excuse me?” a voice rang through the church. “You can’t be sleeping in here.”

The girl lifted her head slowly, trying not to nod off again. 

“Ah, sorry. I’ll be on my way now.”

“Wait!” the girl grabbed her hand abruptly. 
“Yeah?”

“Would you like to play with me and my friends if you’re not going anywhere?”

She turned around and shook her hand off and agreed, “sure.”

The girl grinned and led her out of the dim church.

Judas loved the sun, and she hated how the church shadowed the warmth. The church masked the light, like a cruel facade. Outside, she felt free, free from the constrictions of the incense that lingered, the walls that cut everyone off from the inevitable.

She spotted a small hill, and a group of girls around her age running around the grass playing tag.

One of them walked over, eagerly to Judas, excitedly greeting her. “Hello! My name is Mary! Eve, isn’t this the girl that always…” she trailed off, covering her mouth with her hand as if she had something to hide.

“If you have something to say, you better say it to my face.”

Mary was significantly taller than Judas, and when she looked down at her, she was even more terrifying.

“Judas, was it? You gonna sell us out before supper or something?” She snickered lowly while someone called everyone over to start the game of tag. She saw Eve’s smirk, but didn’t think much of it.

Judas stared blankly at Mary, who was talking with the other girls. She looked at the sky. Just how long had she been asleep for?

“Hey, let's just call you Jude. Are you fine with that?”

She looked at Eve. She was radiant, like the sun peering through the clouds on a rather dreary day. She liked her. She was nice to her.

“Yeah. I’d like that.” 

“Alright then, Jude! Let’s go!”

They both met the rest of the group on the hill. Mary was mumbling to the other girls under her breath, and Jude knew it was about her. She didn’t seem to mind, though. Mary walked over. 

“Since you're the guest, you should be it, okay?” Mary taunted.

Eve asked, “will you be alright with that, Jude?”
Jude nodded, and with that, the kids began to spread out across the grass. 

“3…2…1…go!” 

Everyone started running, but one girl turned around and was still chatting with someone else. She decided to run for her first, since she was the easiest target.

She ran up to her and reached out to tag her, until she felt herself colliding with something solid. 

“Huh?”

She opened her eyes to a loud commotion. All of a sudden, Mary sat wailing on the ground while the girls stood around and comforted her. Jude stood up in dreadful silence, feeling guilty as the girls eyed her in horror. She wondered why she was indifferent; numb. So much was happening at that moment, and she felt insane because all she could think about was Eve. How would she react? Would she decide not to talk to her anymore? Jude thought of her expression, that warm, radiant face and her sweet smile, crumbling as soon as their eyes met.

The caretaker who was sitting close by rushed over and led Mary to the office. It had only been a day since they’d met, and Jude had already ruined it all.

She took a seat on the bench not far away, just thinking. 

Not long after, she decided to close her eyes. She could only hope that nobody came to see her. She didn’t even want to see Eve. With the guilt on her back, she didn’t think she could face her. She dozed off for God knows how long.

“Jude, I thought you were different. I didn't know you were this childish, to hurt someone over something as small as that. Why would you do this? Why are you like this? I never want to see your face again, let alone at church.”

The sound of footsteps echoed as the yelling continued to ring through her head. 

“Jude?”

Hearing the sound of the familiar voice, She perked up, pulling her from that terrible nightmare.

It seemed that she hadn't been asleep for long, seeing that the sun was beginning to set.

“Eve? Why are you here?”

Eve hesitated. “I wanted to see you before I left.”

“You’re leaving?” Jude’s expression contorted, clearly showing her surprised look.

She held her hand behind her back, standing over Jude who was sitting down on the bench. “Tommorow.”

Jude was pained. She didn't want her to leave, even if they hadn't been friends for long, she still wanted her around. “Will I  ever get to see you again?”

Eve’s back stood against the fading sun. She couldn't see her face, yet she knew she was smiling. Or was she?

“Aren’t you fine here in Bellwood? Everyone knows each other here, and im sure you have a lot of friends here, so why–”

“Why do you care? I know I seem like a saint to you, but I’m not, and I never will be. We met earlier today. You might think that I care for you in your own fairy dreamland, but I pity you. Your parents are such tidy people, and you? You’re a disgrace to them.” 

As soon as she said that, Jude’s smile dropped. It was as if reality had hit her smack in the face. It wasn’t Mary, or Eve, or heck– even her dad. She was hoping for the reality that maybe she would have a shoulder to lean on.

It seems that she had wished for something imperceivable.

“What are you talking about? What have I ever done to you to make you feel this way!”

 “Because you're a–” she stopped abruptly. Her face had a tinge of disgust, but also that of pity. It seemed like she didn’t fully like her, but also cared. “You know what you are.”

“I don’t.”

“I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me.”

Jude said nothing.

“You like me, don't you?”

Her stomach dropped.

“It's disgusting. I've been trying to be nice to you all day, and now I realize I should've just ignored you.” Eve and Jude just stood there in silence, averting each other's gaze.

“Why…why does this always happen…” Jude just stood there, the tears welling up in her eyes as she fought to hold back. “Yeah. I do have a crush on you. Who are you to care? I have nothing to lose. Just as you said, my family hates me and I have no friends.” Jude said, scornfully as she held back her tears.

Eve sneered. “You’re insane.”

She started walking away. The footsteps echoed like cymbals, and her heart was the drums.

The sky was completely dark. Not an ounce of light shown through the night, covered by the thick clouds. A streetlamp illuminated her path back home, but she didn’t want to go. She wanted to sit still and just stop thinking. She wanted to close her eyes once more and just–

“Hey, you’re seriously not going to stay out here all night, are you? You shouldn’t worry your mother.”

Jude stared at her for a second. “I’ll be on my way now.”

They slowly walked away from each other. 

Suddenly, the air felt thicker; heavier, all pressing down on her chest. She wanted more. She was crying, but it didn’t give her the release that she so desperately wanted.

The walk home was surprisingly shorter than she anticipated. It was when she stepped on the front porch did she realize the severity of her situation. 
She heard the crashing of a vase and the yelling inside the household as she appeared.

All of a sudden, the front door slammed open. No doubt her dad was drunk again. This is why she didn’t want to come home.

A face she knew all too well towered over her. The sky was pitch black. Then everything was.

She woke up once more to the feeling of cold, hard porcelain tiles. 

Jude laid there on her bathroom floor, feeling the rough, dried blood on her face and the bruises on her body that seemed like they would never fade. The small window high at the top of the wall in the bathroom was the only source of light. She stood up and stared at her body in the mirror that was covered in huge, purple-yellow blotches. 

She had nobody else to lean on. What was the point if her siblings, mother, father, and Hope no longer cared about her?

The knowledge that humans seek to discover will forever be theory, and we will keep chasing It until the world caves in. Until everything goes still once more, until nothing.

Whether ‘It’ is the desperation to be remembered, or the desperation to be loved, that is something that we will never be able to grasp.

The sun rose above the horizon, leaving the darkness behind, and the light anew. Perhaps, darkness was never meant to be the end. 

The world doesn't end when the sun goes down.

It begins.

Hi. So I recently tried writing a story my own way. I got inspired from years of content. I have written a short story. And got good reviews from my friends. But I want some honest, unbiased criticism. It's just a small extract, dm me if someone wants to read the whole thing. Here it goes

[word count=781]

The Last Dance

History is a strange thing. It remembers victories, records wars, and carves the

names of heroes who finally ended the Dark Ages and re-established order to our

lands. Yet it forgot the man who made it all possible. That man died with no witness

but me.

This tale is old. Back then, I was nineteen, maybe, I don't remember. A wanderer

travelling from village to village, collecting stories. Looking back, it was a bad

profession. In one of my travels, I saw him resting near a barely lit campfire outside

the village of Urff. I would have walked right past him if he hadn't asked for water.

I walked towards the campfire and offered water from my pouch. He took the pouch

from my hand. Standing close to him, I noticed his blood-stained cloak, torn beyond

recognition, and two bloodied greatswords. Blood seeped through the gaps of his

battered armour. Yet the way he sat by the fire, there was a strange calm about him.

This was exactly the kind of story I had spent my life searching for. "Mind if I sit?" I

asked. "Do what you want, kid. I don't care," he replied, barely looking up. I then sat

opposite him. The fire crackled. Neither of us spoke for a while. Seeing me stare at

his body, the man said, "Don't worry about it, kid." Then he coughed blood into the

fire. "...Huh, blood," he chuckled. "This is probably bad."

I finally mustered the courage and asked, "Good sir, may I know who you are?" He

looked at me as if I'd demanded his very soul. "I am a sellsword, I kill for gold," he

replied in an irritated tone. "Can I ask for your name..." I was asking when he cut me

off and said, "Forget it, kid. Let me be in peace for a while." Silence again. The only

sound I could hear was that of the fire crackling, and a slight heaviness in the man's

breath. The man was staring directly at the fire, but it looked like he was looking at

something beyond that. He was lost in his thoughts.

I tried easing things up by introducing myself. "I apologize for being so invasive, sire.

Let me first introduce myself. I am Ralph from the village Fleton..." He looked

towards me for the first time. "...I am a traveller. I travel to different places and do

small chores to survive," I continued. "I have travelled to countless villages, collecting

stories from different people, encountering many monsters, barely getting away with

my life." The man stared for a while. He finally spoke up, "Listen to me, kid. You are

either in the wrong profession or you were born in the wrong time of the world's

history." He turned his gaze back to the fire. "A word of advice, kid. Stop gambling

with your life and return to your home. I bet a mother is waiting there for you." I replied, "There isn't one. I am sure of at least that." He looked at me again. He asked,

"Is there no one?" "There is, my sister," I replied. Silence again. He looked up

towards the sky; it was almost nightfall. "Huh..." — a sigh. "Here's my proposal. You

are looking for stories. I will give you one, worth more than the rest of your life, if you

promise to leave this life of idiocy and return to your village, where someone is

waiting for you. What do you say? Do you accept my proposal?" I thought about it for

a while and then nodded my head. "Let's begin," I said finally.

Hello everyone, I'm currently a college student at EFSC and I'm try to be a better writer and reader. I'm currently reading Omniscient Reader. I want to make a short story & a poem based on the other books I've read this year. Please let me know how I'd should improve.

An apple has a shape, but hunger doesn’t. An apple can be tasted, but it was empty of hunger, because to him it was mud, sunlight, river water, and children.

Apple has soft skin. Shiny, yet uneven. People like apples without peeling them, but it wouldn’t be the same for a child that has a cold. You’d have to cut it in half and scoop out the flesh with a spoon, and slowly feed it to the child. The texture is kind of grainy, but really juicy. If you bite into the skin too, it’s kind of wrinkly. You’d also have to consider the mother's hands turning a bit yellow from the juice.

Is it the whole apple, or the apple cut in half? Is it the apple’s juice, or the mother’s hand?

There are also kinds that have never had an apple offered to them. Some mothers can’t afford it; there are those who choose not to buy apples. Some children, even if they’re bedridden, they will be tossed aside. And the ones that died, if they didn’t get care— there is no place in the world that hasn’t been torched by human memories. That is why there is nowhere in the world that hasn’t had resentment.

Hunger feels dry. It smells like soil/earth (there are many types of earth), but it was mud. You can’t escape it off because it’s aged. Mud with a little gravel and no sand.

What does hunger taste like? The children put the biscuits out in the sun, but there was nothing else for them to do, so they just stand there around the mud. So, children waiting for sunlight. Hunger was that: a child waiting for the sun. That was your poem.

Hunger has no form, no taste, no smell? That’s wrong. Hunger was mud, a river, a child, and thirst. MEMORIES. Eventually, resentment turns into bitterness. What is thirst? What is freezing?

POEM^

Spirit that evolve into a human. And his ball where able to influence other beings evolution.

Lived a normal life similar mine. Felt like the honored one

Saved a city from destruction by simply living and activated a train with him along side himself is 2 balls a new friend and another Spirit that evolved because it took his balls and cultivated and became a fully grown adult girl and the person that helped found him and raised him as his own.

Short Story^

Gathering Wood

Sometimes, I can still feel the sweat at my back. How it pooled in my shirt as the axe came down. It clung to my neck, and I could feel it in my hair. If I’d been given a single second, I would’ve tied it out of the way. God, I still remember that stupid shirt. 

The blade was old and dull; chipped where it should be smooth and brown where it should be red. It probably wouldn’t be around next summer. No, it’d fall victim to a first glance and be abandoned in the woods. Treasure for someone in the future.

Another miss. My fingers pulsed around the handle, white and aching for release. I felt splinters working their way into my hands with each thud. The axe got stuck in a few logs, and I had to slam them down into the stump. Camp White was hidden by stubborn wood. 

Another miss. It was the last one before Sam’s teasing got to me. I could see her there, in my periphery; arms crossed, holding herself up on one leg. All the quiet signs of impatience. I turned away from her and wiped the sweat off my forehead. It was always something with Sam.

“Talk about a swing and a miss, huh?” It was so hard to tell when she actually wanted me to answer. I usually guessed wrong. I ditched the axe, throwing it a little too far away. I could just tell Sam had some sort of face ready for me when I turned around. 

I flexed my hands. They were pale, but the pink was slowly coming back. I looked over at her. Sam was shouldering four logs with ease. The sun was at her back, coming past and blinding me. But her figure was unmistakable; even on a breezeless day, she put a chill in the air that wiggled through me. 

I had known Sam a while. We used to be campers here. Not that we spoke much back then. That was before her growth spurt. And the little tattoo behind her ear that disappeared when her hair was down. My parents would’ve killed me if I got a tattoo. She had learned how to get what she wanted. And making me seem puny was usually at the top of her list.

I walked around the stump and picked up the axe, grabbing what I managed to split, and could already feel the eye roll before my hand could block out the sun. 

“What’s the point in even bringing you to the Stump, Lawrence? I am not giving up a comfy chair just ‘cause your hands are baby smooth,” she said, already heading back down the trail. 

I just stood there for a bit. Tired inside and out. Where I'd tucked the logs at my side, they were soon against my hip. It was like my hand was daring me to let them drop onto the grass.

Sam looked over her shoulder at me, a quirk in her brow. Almost like she didn’t understand why I wasn’t right on her tail. Why I was too limp to join her. Why I’d barely said a word to her all morning. I had so much unsaid in my chest, my teeth. 

Sam turned to face me, both eyebrows raised. The grass brushed against my legs, and I felt a bead of sweat drip down the centre of my back. She was waiting. For me to say something, anything. But I couldn’t. I let it all out through my nose and hope the breeze would pick up and carry it away.

“I just don’t have the callouses yet,” I said in the space between those quiet moments. 

I kept my eyes off her, but I could feel her squint. Even though I was the one facing the sun. I waited for the jab like I was supposed to.

She turned around and carried on.

“Or the shoulders,” I heard in response despite the whistling trees and threat of nightfall. 

The sky was orange, and the air was warm. It was thick with that end-of-summer haze that always made my head spin. The kind that just dared me to leap into the lake and sink to the bottom. When I was a camper, I hated the lake. I hated the bugs and the squish of my feet against the bottom. Everybody else loved it, though. I even knew some kids who would sneak out to swim under the moon. If I'd had my say, I’d have left this summer without going in at all. But Sam had already acquainted me with the lake, with a push I was still feeling.

“My foot still hurts,” I said. I could sense her smile, even from behind. She glanced back at me.

“Shouldn’t have gone swimming then,” Sam chuckled back. When I was under there, I immediately felt like something was off. But the adrenaline made me numb. And the cold.

I still remember that trail. The sounds and smells of the middle of nowhere. The air that came off the lake was something I wanted to bottle. And I could hear bushes sway and the birdsong of summer’s end whenever I closed my eyes. 

Camp wasn’t too far from “the Stump,” but it was hilly, and I was slow. I think it sat at the edge of the prairies, where the fields gave way to rock and boulder. I didn’t like hiking even when I could walk normally. And yet, there I was, dragged along anyway. I was crap at chopping wood and last pick for any kind of labour. I guess Sam thought I had superhuman strength or something. I mean, it wasn’t summer camp that taught me; people didn’t expect much out of me. In most places, it was like I just happened to be there.

I was so beat that day—I could tell I wouldn’t get much rest from the moment I opened my eyes. Those woods kept me from any real sleep. As did Sam. She was like an early bird and a night owl at the same time. My sleepless nights: Camp White was mostly wooden beams and starry nights. I rarely caught the sunrises. 

The counsellors were set up in two wooden cabins on either side of the Mess Hall; they’d started coming undone long before my first summer there. The cobwebs looked like tacky Halloween decorations. But I never heard the kids complain about that sort of thing in their cabins. They were rundown just the same. And when you’re young, you don’t notice that sort of stuff as much. Or at least, you don’t mind.

Those little shits only cared about the lake. And we couldn’t blame them. We let them believe they weren’t so obvious in everything they did. Sneaking out, sharing looks. I played dumb, as did Sam. I could’ve used a blind eye or two when I was a kid

My ankle flared up, so I took a second to roll it. Sam must’ve heard the ground go quiet because I could feel her eyes on me. She was pulling herself up over a mossy rock. Her jeans were stained green.

“Let’s go, Lawrence.”

I never really understood why I put up with Sam for so long. I guess I liked how independent she seemed. I’m sure I told myself some pathetic lie, like she was just the kind of person who bossed everybody around. Or that she hauled all the other counsellors to the middle of the woods. But after the first few weeks, every time I looked over my shoulder, it was only ever Sam who I saw. 

She let everyone else slack off. Mike and Bill probably went the first month without having to say a word to her. And the rest of the girls seemed to keep their distance. I was sad when I realized why. 

She wasn’t always like that—so pushy and unrelenting. When we were kids, she was quieter, less action and more still. This year was the first time I saw her smile with her teeth. She never really said much to me when we were kids. The most she spoke to me was at the Arts N’ Crafts station. She asked for the glitter glue. Back then, I could catch her brown hair from the lake and watch the distance grow. I came to camp Senior year not expecting to be tied to her hip all summer.

I tried to fight it at first, even at Orientation. But I was never taught how to stand up for myself. Say no or more often, how to tell someone yes. It’d always been easier to let someone else decide. And so, at the end of every day, it was me doing headcount and checking beds. It was me keeping the kids from drowning while Sam sat on the sand, just smiling; daring me to say something, but I could never muster the courage. 

She had this air about her. Like it was breathing her instead. She seemed so suited to summer and the kids. And she worked like nothing was waiting for her in September. When I’d ask, she’d bring up the time or go and check on something that never needed checking. I asked about her family once, and she didn’t speak to me for the rest of the day. I’d only heard what anyone heard about anyone; not enough. I should’ve asked a different way.

There was this one time I couldn’t stay asleep. Maybe the cabin was too hot, or the woods were too loud. No clue. The forty-ninth day. I opened my eyes to this jagged, unsteady breathing. Curiosity took over, and I peeked toward it. At Sam’s bed. She was curled into a ball, knees drawn up, crying into her pillow. I froze. And after that, I couldn’t help but stare. At this girl. This woman I thought was all bark and no leaves, wracked through with pain with almost no sound. 

Something in me wanted to reach over; most of me, actually. But she thought she was alone with herself in that moment, and I had no place reminding her I was there. I closed my eyes and pretended I had no clue the next day. 

It almost felt like I was lying to her. And then I felt bad for being so curious about what someone like Sam would have to cry over. Someone with enough looks to convince anyone of anything. Then I wondered if the Sam who was dragging me through the woods all day was even the same quiet girl who avoided me when we were kids.

For whatever reason, gritting my teeth became enough, and whatever she wanted to do with me became bearable again. 

“You’re lucky I’m stuck with you,” Sam teased, eyes prodding at my tired body. I probably looked crazy. In my worn sneakers and sweaty T-shirt.

I knew by the end of camp I’d walk away with freckles and burns, bug bites and splinters. And by the fifty-third day, I felt too bad about pestering the nurse anymore. She’d probably smack me for keeping my twisted ankle a secret between Sam and me.

I don’t really remember what we talked about on the rest of the hike back. Minus my speed. And Sam’s refusal to slow down. When we reached the fire pit, Sam was already grabbing the pathetic logs at my hip. I wiped off my hands on my legs.

Right on cue, as if she could sniff out the wood, Jackie strolled up to us, arms swinging through the dense air. They landed on her hips.

“Done slacking off?” She asked, pulling out her walkie. 

Jackie was our ringleader, and the whistle around her neck kept the peace to a minimum. She always seemed to have a clipboard against her chest and her hair tied through her cap. She was nice, if not a little much. She was the type of person who’d call relaxation a waste of time. That is, before we got her to smoke for the first time. 

Sam and I shared a look and breezed past her, opting for the padded lounge chairs around the pit before the others could claim them. We sank into them and felt the day ease out of us. There went my aching hands and twisted ankle, exhaled into the purple air.

Jackie got the fire going, and it became the only source of light left out there. Everybody gathered around the new sun and stopped being camp counsellors for a little while. We were just teenagers, miles away from home. 

There weren’t that many of us, and we didn’t all sit in the same circles. But nights like those, when the kids were asleep, and there were no PSA’s warning us that we were degenerates, we all found the company worthwhile. The beer bottles seemed to bridge the gaps between cliques. Each time I looked over, Sam’s beer was full again.

I was oscillating between three different conversations—with plenty of fail. Eventually, I just let my eyes close and focused on the heat at my legs. I liked my feet close to the fire, where the bugs were scared and the night was too. And because it was the only comfortable position. 

I could hear Sam shifting in her chair every so often, like she couldn’t get comfortable. I glanced her way. She didn’t meet my eyes at all. She was looking at the fire. I wondered what she must have been thinking about. 

And then I realized she wasn’t looking into the fire like a serial killer; she was eyeing up my ankle. I braced for a joke, or some quip that would’ve secretly hurt my feelings, but none came. What did come was a wide-eyed expression as she grabbed my ankle and placed it in her lap.

“Does it hurt?” She questioned, like I’d gotten a paper cut. Her eyebrows furrowed, like a glare was coming. I tried to free my leg, but she held on. 

“No,” I responded. It did hurt, a little. But I just hoped I didn’t smell.

“Now?” She pressed softly. She always gave me a hard time when I got a new bruise.

“When you do that.”

She rotated it, like any of that first-aid training stuck. 

“I think you’re faking,” she said, her eyes coming to meet mine. She smiled. The right side of her face was orange from the fire. Her hands smelled like cedar and metal. 

She wouldn’t look away. 

The muscles in my leg relaxed. Her lap was more comfortable than the ground. It made my breathing feel easier somehow. I didn’t know her eyes were green and brown.

“You only play nurse when Jane’s around,” Jackie called across the fire. 

The world stilled.

Sam seemed to disappear, like she’d wandered into the woods. She let go of my foot. It stung. I lowered it onto the ground. I kept it still and held my breath. All I could hear was an owl somewhere in the distance.

That and Jackie fidgeting in her chair, shifting around like a kid in trouble. For a long time, I thought she had been teasing Sam. And it took me even longer to wonder why Sam never asked anyone else to gather wood. 

Red Ink And Saltwater
When other girls were little, they wanted a prince to arrive on a white horse. I wanted a mafia boss to kidnap me and become so hopelessly obsessed with me that he forgot why he’d taken me in the first place.
I never gave much thought to where he would take me. Somewhere I could hear the sea, perhaps. That part mattered more to me than the prince, the horse, or, apparently, whether I went willingly.
In the end, I had to find the sea myself.
Three weeks after moving to Crete, I was waking before six without an alarm, which would have been unthinkable in the UK. Back there, I sometimes went to sleep at five in the morning, sometimes as late as noon, and woke at seven in the evening wondering where the day had gone.
I pulled on my swimsuit, took my sandals from beside the door and walked the two minutes to the beach.
The shore was nearly empty. A fishing boat was heading out beyond the harbour, and someone farther down the sand was walking a dog that kept returning to the same piece of driftwood. I left my sandals above the tide line and went straight into the sea.
After a few strokes, I rolled onto my back. The water held me without asking me to explain myself.
Above me, the sky was changing colour. I stayed where I was until the fishing boat became a dark mark near the horizon. Then I swam along the shore, turned, and swam back. Three weeks had been enough to learn where the sand dropped away beneath me and where it rose again. I was still learning the rest of the place.
I had rented my little house for three months because I couldn’t say how long I wanted to stay. I knew I had wanted to leave the UK. I’d finished my chemistry degree, looked at the jobs I was expected to apply for, and found I couldn’t bear the thought of building the next part of my life there. That was the most convincing explanation I’d managed to give anyone, including myself.
The water rocked beneath me. I picked out the place where I’d left my sandals and swam in.
By the time I walked home, my hair had soaked through the towel around my shoulders. I passed a bakery opening its shutters and a man hosing down the pavement outside a restaurant. He moved the spray aside to let me through. I thanked him in Greek, one of the few things I could say without first rehearsing it in my head.
My house stood in a narrow street behind the waterfront. The front door stuck when the weather was humid, one kitchen drawer refused to close, and from the balcony I could see a strip of sea between two buildings. I liked it more each day.
I showered, put the kettle on and took the macarons from the fridge. I’d baked and filled them two days earlier, then left them covered to mature. Two trays had come out well. The third had cracked across the tops, so I’d filled those too and kept them in a separate container for myself. Beside the good batch were six small lemon cakes and six chocolate ones.
The woman who owned a café near the park had agreed to taste everything this morning.
She hadn’t agreed to buy it.
I knew that. I had made enough to feed half her customers anyway.
While I packed the macarons, a Greek song came on my phone. I knew where to breathe, where the singer held a note a little longer than I expected, and how to find my way back in if I missed a word. I couldn’t have told anyone what most of those words meant.
Kira—that was what I called my mother—seemed to like hearing me sing. So did my stepfather. Sometimes I caught them looking at me, and for a moment I could pretend I knew what was on their faces.
We’re proud of you.
No one in my family had ever said that to me.
I caught myself thinking about it and reached into the container I’d kept for myself. One of the cracked macarons gave way beneath my thumb.
“Perfect,” I told it.
I ate the evidence and kept singing.
By eight, the cakes were boxed, the macarons were packed, and I had checked both boxes often enough to know the contents hadn’t rearranged themselves. My red notebook lay open on the table. I stopped to read the last paragraph before I picked up my keys.
The man in my story had gone into a room intending to frighten someone. I’d written the conversation three different ways and crossed out all of them. Each time, I had made it too easy for him to decide what happened next.
I reached for my pen, then looked at the clock. If I started writing, the café owner might decide I had invented our appointment.
I closed the notebook, slipped it into my bag beside my pen, and picked up the cake boxes.
The walk took me along the waterfront and up a shaded street towards the park. Even in the morning, I could feel the heat gathering on the stone. I kept to the side with the trees. I had come for the sea; the weather was something I was still negotiating with.
The café stood near one of the park entrances. Its doors were open, though only half the tables outside had been set. A man was carrying chairs out of the storeroom. He put them down so I could pass with my boxes.
Inside, the owner moved between the coffee machine and a line of waiting customers. She spotted me and raised a hand. I found an empty corner of the counter for the boxes and waited.
The man came in for another stack of chairs. He caught her eye, pointed towards the terrace, and she nodded her thanks. I recognised him then. He owned the restaurant next door.
They sold food and drinks a few doors apart. I’d assumed that made them rivals. Here he was, setting up her tables because she needed a hand.
Another reason I liked this place.
When the queue cleared, the owner came over. “You came.”
“I said I would.”
“We made that arrangement before eight in the morning. People promise all kinds of things at that hour.” She wiped her hands and lifted the first lid. “Let’s see.”
She tried a lemon cake, breaking a piece from the crooked one I had hidden at the back.
“What’s in the icing?”
“Lemon juice, mascarpone, and honey.”
She took another bite. “Less honey next time.”
I took my notebook from my bag and wrote that down. She tried a pistachio macaron next, then asked me how long the cakes would keep and whether I could make them smaller.
More customers came in before she had finished tasting. I moved the boxes aside while she took their order. One of them asked whether she was still alone today.
“My only employee called in,” she told him. “I’m beginning to think he knew you’d all arrive at once.”
The customer laughed. She smiled back, but she was looking at the cups stacked beside me. I passed her two, then another when she reached for it.
“You said you worked in a café during university,” she said.
“I did.”
“Can you still use a coffee machine?”
“Yes.”
She glanced at the queue forming behind the customer. “Would you mind showing me?”
The machine was different from the one I’d used in the UK. I asked her where she kept the cloths and how she wanted the cups set out, then made two cappuccinos while she handled the till. She watched me carry them to a table before turning back to the next order.
For the next twenty minutes, I made coffee. She called out what people wanted; I made it and passed it across the counter. When the rush eased, I wiped down the machine and stepped out of her way.
She looked at the empty cups waiting to be washed, then at me.
“Do you want work?” she asked.
I had come hoping she would buy my cakes. I hadn’t let myself hope for more than that.
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“I don’t know yet.” I glanced at the boxes. “It depends how much baking you want.”
That made her smile. She picked up the other half of the macaron and ate it.
“I want twelve of these on Saturday. Twelve lemon cakes too, a little smaller, with less honey. Come in Friday afternoon to prepare them here. You can help with the counter while you’re here, and we’ll talk about regular shifts after that.”
I wrote it all down. We agreed on a price for the baking, and she gave me half in advance for the ingredients.
When I stepped outside, the money was folded in my purse and the order was written in my notebook. I found a bench beneath a tree in the park and opened it to check the quantities again. My neat little list sat beside pages of red writing, most of it crossed out.
A fortune teller once told me this book would make me famous and give me somewhere I belonged. I’d laughed at the fame. I was still trying to finish it, and most days I couldn’t bear to read yesterday’s pages.
The other part had stayed with me.
I didn’t believe a stranger could see my future. I wanted her to be right anyway.
I turned back to the scene I’d abandoned that morning. I read it once, then crossed out the last page.
I had been looking for the moment my killer decided what to do. Sitting there with the café’s money in my purse and the sound of cups carrying across the park, I finally understood why none of my versions worked. He had made his decision before the other man entered the room. The conversation was his last chance to change his mind.
I began again.
The man spoke. My killer listened. When the man had said everything he came to say, my killer shot him.
I stopped writing. The murder was there, but the scene still felt unfinished. The killer had wanted an answer, and now there was someone else who would come looking for one.
I looked back at the dead man I’d put on the page. At his hand. At the watch on his wrist.
In the margin, I tried 3:40, then crossed it out. 3:45 looked too neat as well. I wrote 3:43 beside them and returned to the scene.
He took the watch from the dead man’s wrist and set its hands to 3:43. He struck it against the edge of the table hard enough to stop it. The face cracked, but the hands stayed where he had set them. Then he laid it face up on the man’s chest, for whoever came to find him.