Clara had learned long ago as a single mother that when a child finally falls asleep after crying quietly from sheer fatigue, a parent will swallow every drop of their own pride just to keep from waking them.
She wore a brown leather jacket, heavily faded at the elbows, a scuffed backpack stuffed with snacks, a dead tablet, a change of clothes, and the stuffed rabbit Lily hadn’t let go of since her father died.
She had bought the roses at the airport.
Tomorrow marked exactly three years since her husband had passed away.
Every anniversary, Clara would place fresh flowers in the living room, and Lily would choose the vase.
It was a small, stubborn tradition—one of those routines that survive because grief needs something simple and tangible to rest upon.
“I have a reservation,” Clara said, keeping her voice strictly at a whisper. “Under Clara Vance.”
The receptionist—a impeccably groomed man with flawlessly styled hair and a gold nametag that read Patrick—scanned her from head to toe before reluctantly tapping on his computer.
Beside him, Karl, another front-desk agent wearing a crisp dark suit, crossed his arms with a cold smile.
Patrick typed for a few seconds. “Nothing is coming up.”
“It should have been booked directly through the corporate office,” Clara explained calmly. “Could you check the executive block?”
Patrick let out a heavy sigh. “Ma’am, we are completely booked tonight. There is a massive corporate gala in the grand ballroom, and we have zero vacancies.”
Clara carefully adjusted Lily’s weight on her shoulder.
