Chapter 14 #3
Some nights, it still scratched at the inside of her ribs, the memory of standing at the top of the stairs, watching her father speak in hushed tones to her grandmother, whose eyes had often travelled toward her, sadness etched into the lines of her face.
The weight of his words when he explained that he was heading to Hartford for a new job and that he didn’t have the money to support them both, not yet.
But soon. And then the sound of a door that didn’t slam but might as well have.
And then, over time, the quiet knowledge that someone had chosen a new life. A new family. And had decided not to bring her with him.
It stayed. It echoed.
And now, without meaning to, she saw it in Imogen’s eyes, too.
Imogen wore it differently than Hazel did.
Where Hazel was soft and malleable, Imogen was sharp and distinct.
She wore her pain defensively, like armour, ensuring no one would get close enough to hurt her.
Often, she would adjust her pain and wield it like a weapon.
She would lash out first, if only to anticipate the blow they were surely preparing to land.
So Hazel said the first thing that came to her, something small and uncomplicated, something with no sharp edges. Something Imogen didn’t need to defend herself against.
“You know,” she murmured, pursing her lips. “I could use your help.”
Imogen turned, slow and wary. Her gaze landed on Hazel like she was trying to place her, like Hazel had just spoken in a dialect neither of them had agreed to use.
Her brows pinched together, confusion flashing raw before she remembered to mask it. “With what?”
Hazel tilted her head toward the bakery behind her, her voice steady. “I have a few boxes of baked goods I need to bring over to Greyfin.” She nodded to the storefront across the street, where golden light flickered behind tall windows. “I could use an extra set of hands. If you have the time.”
Imogen blinked, once and then again. A pause stretched long and uncertain, then she huffed a laugh, the sound low and brittle, with no real mirth in it. It broke like glass too thin to hold weight.
“You want me to help you carry desserts to a party I wasn’t even invited to?”
Hazel didn’t flinch. She’d expected the bite. Her lips curved slightly— wry, but not insincere— though the expression didn’t touch her eyes.
“I mean,” she said, her voice quiet. “That part’s easy enough to fix. Consider yourself invited.”
Imogen scoffed, the sound nothing more than a sharp exhale through her nose. Her jaw clenched as she looked away, the lines of her body drawing in like fabric pulled taut against cold. “Hazel. Come on.”
Hazel said nothing. She just stayed. And waited.
Across the street, the laughter and movement inside Greyfin looked almost slow-motion, a little too warm, a little too far away— like a snow globe world neither of them belonged to.
Inside, someone shifted past the record player, moving with loose limbs and a bright grin on their face.
Music fluttered through the glass like something private being accidentally overheard.
Imogen’s eyes caught on it, then dropped. Her hands disappeared deeper into her coat pockets, curling in against her ribs as if to protect something sore. “You and I both know I’m not exactly welcome.”
Hazel’s voice was quiet. “Says who?”
Imogen had no answer for that, just another long stretch of silence, crisp and thin. Her jaw worked again, grinding down words that didn’t want to be said.
And Hazel saw it.
The crack.
The fault line in all that polished steel.
The way Imogen’s breath snagged ever so slightly. The way she seemed to fold inward, like the cold had finally gotten beneath her skin and set up camp inside her chest. Like it had always been there, if anyone had cared to look closely enough.
“I wasn’t invited,” Imogen said again, her voice sharper this time. “And I’m not interested in being someone’s pity project. Thanks anyway.”
There it was again, that defensive edge, polished to a shine.
Imogen always met kindness with a blade, like she didn’t trust it to be real unless it cut.
Hazel understood it more than she wanted to, that instinct to bristle before anyone could get close enough to see the soft parts underneath.
But tonight, she was too tired to dance around it, too wrung out to offer reassurances she didn’t believe in.
Hazel let out a soft, drawn out exhale, the kind of sigh that felt scraped from the bottom of the lungs.
“Well, that’s good,” she offered a beat later, lifting one of her shoulders in a shrug. “Because I don’t really have any pity to give. Not to you.”
Imogen’s head snapped toward her, startled. Her expression sharpened, a reflex shaped like a raised shield.
But Hazel didn’t pull back. She met her gaze, not with heat, not with pity, not even with hope. Just clarity. Something still and bare and honest.
“I’m not inviting you out of pity,” she said, her voice firmer now, anchored in knowing the right path forward. “I’m inviting you because you’re standing here. And because I think maybe you don’t want to be anywhere else right now. Not really. I know what that feels like.”
That stilled something between them. Imogen’s posture didn’t change, but the tension in it softened, barely, but noticeably. Her breath held in her chest.
Hazel didn’t rush the next words. She let the space breathe before stepping into it again, quieter now.
“Look,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re already dressed for a party. There’s food, there’s music, and there are people in there who won’t ask anything of you except that you stay long enough to have a drink. I’m not asking you to explain yourself. I’m not asking you to pretend.”
She paused again, letting the words settle between them.
“I’m just… inviting you,” she finished. “Because I can. Because I think you’ll have a good time.”
The silence that followed didn’t feel like rejection, it felt like a held breath.
“So,” Hazel added, her gaze studying the sharpened lines of Imogen’s face, the cold set of her icy blue irises. “Are you coming or not?”
It wasn’t a challenge— it wasn’t even a question, not really.
It was a hand held out, palm up, still and waiting.
Imogen looked at the sidewalk, then the streetlamp, then the bakery window where the porcelain town glowed, small and intricate and almost painfully sweet.
Something shifted in her expression, not armour, not ice, but something softer.
Something uncertain. Like she’d stumbled into a doorway she hadn’t realized was meant for her.
Hazel waited.
Not pushing, not coaxing.
Just holding the space.
The wind picked up again, brushing past Hazel’s legs like a cat rounding her ankles, cool and familiar.
And then, with no words and no warning, Imogen stepped forward, letting out a rough exhale that felt a lot like a quiet agreement.
It was a small, quiet surrender of distance.
Hazel didn’t smile or nod. She simply turned, like breath shifting in a quiet room, and opened the door the rest of the way.
And together, they crossed the threshold.
Inside, the warmth gathered around them.
The bakery was dark except for the golden glow of the porcelain town in the window.
It cast long, honeyed shadows across the floor, making the worn wood gleam.
Light pooled against the table legs, curled across the countertops, settled into corners like it had been waiting there.
The scent of maple and cinnamon still hung in the air, less sharp now, more settled.
Like a lullaby played too many times on an old record, softened at the edges by memory.
Neither of them spoke.
Imogen drifted forward, her steps tentative and composed. Her heels tapped against the floor, slowing as she reached the tiny display by the front window. She didn’t crouch, didn’t bend. Just stood before it, still as a painting.
Hazel stayed where she was, letting the silence stretch like ribbon. She watched the subtle changes in Imogen’s face, the pause, the slight tilt of her head, the shift in her breath.
Her eyes didn’t land on the storefronts or the clusters of painted townspeople, but drifted further in to the park bench near the frozen pond, the lamppost with the crooked base, the mail carrier standing at the end of a drive holding a parcel wrapped in green.
There was something unbearably still about the way she looked at it, as if she’d stumbled into a memory she hadn’t meant to unearth.
Hazel’s voice broke the quiet a beat later.
“My grandmother used to take them out every year,” she said, her eyes remaining on Imogen’s profile as she spoke. “Each of them were wrapped in paper like they were made of glass. She had a story for all of them, every single little porcelain person there.”
Imogen didn’t turn. But Hazel saw her shoulders shift, barely. A small, almost imperceptible hitch in the line of her spine.
“She used to say,” Hazel went on, her voice quieter now. “That it was nice to imagine a place where no one left. Where you always knew where to find the people you loved.”
Imogen’s hands had slipped from her pockets. Her fingers twitched once at her sides, as though unsure what to do with themselves.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was solemn and still, steeped in the kind of quiet that feels like respect.
Between them, the small round table stood like neutral ground.
Four bakery boxes were stacked neatly on its surface, tied with twine, their sides still faintly warm from the ovens earlier that day.
Hazel moved first, reaching across the table and sliding her fingers beneath the top two boxes.
She lifted them into her arms without breaking her gaze from the window.
Imogen turned towards her, watching as Hazel shifted a few inches toward the door, the boxes held high in her arms. Then, after a beat, she reached forward and did the same, gathering the remaining boxes with both hands.
Her grip was careful but sure, as if the act of carrying something might anchor her.
Their eyes met over the stack. Not for long, but long enough. Hazel’s brows lifted, just slightly— a question that didn’t need to be asked aloud. And Imogen— her chin still high, her shoulders still drawn— gave the smallest nod.
No words passed between them. They didn’t need to speak to understand.
Hazel turned first, shifting the boxes in her arms, and stepped toward the door. Imogen followed without hesitation, the sound of her heels reminding Hazel that she wasn’t far behind.
Outside, the cold met them with its usual quiet bite, the wind tugging gently at their coats. Snow still fell in slow spirals, the kind that didn’t rush to land. Across the street, Greyfin glowed like a beacon, music and warmth pulsing through the windows.
They walked side by side, the silence between them no longer strained but companionable in its own quiet way. Their shoes left twin tracks in the dusting of snow, their breath rising in pale clouds that faded into the dark.
At the curb, Hazel paused, adjusting the weight in her arms to open the door.
“You don’t have to stay long,” she murmured, her voice nearly lost to the wind.
“I know,” Imogen said. Her tone wasn’t bitter, just even.
Hazel opened the door, the heat and music spilling out in a sudden rush of light and sound.
And together, they stepped inside.