I slept dreamlessly for once—no trip to the void, no strange visions. The smell of coffee and my mamá’s cooking drifted into my room, confirming she must have gotten home early. I reached over to my nightstand, grabbing my phone. I squinted as the lock screen photo of Carter and me brightened before my eyes adjusted. Just after nine. Perfect. I definitely needed the rest after last night’s dreams and Carter’s unexpected visit.

I smiled, thinking about the evening we’d shared, until his tattoo flashed in my mind, pulling me back to that second dream. I shook it off. Not now. I sat up, pulling my covers aside as a chill swept over me. I slipped into the fluffy grey robe I’d tossed over my chair the night before and padded over to the window, tugging the curtains open. The yard stretched out below, bare and brown. I scowled. “Come on already,” I whispered, annoyed at the snowless scene.

Snow had a way of transforming everything, softening the world in white. In Waterow, it blanketed everything in a quiet beauty, but in the city? That was a different story. On the north side, the snow was stunning at first but quickly dissolved into grey, filthy slush. Across the River Draeg, the south side became even gloomier and drearier in the winter. There, the snow never stayed white, turning brown and patchy almost as soon as it fell. Yet, despite its grit, parts of the south side held an undeniable appeal—bohemian artists, musicians, and the best nightlife around all gathered near the infamous Club Dusk.

Club Dusk: so famous and infamous that both rich and poor lined up for hours just to get in. No VIP entry, no guest lists. If you wanted in, you had to stand in line. I’d always wanted to go, to hear that legendary music and taste their mind-blowing cocktails. Just thinking about it made me sigh.

“Elena, ¡el desayuno está listo! Get down here, silly girl!” I heard my mamá’s warm, slightly raspy voice call up from the kitchen. Ay, she really knew how to make me feel like I was five years old again. I grabbed my phone and left my room in a hurry; my mamá was not the type to call again…

I entered the kitchen, which was bright and painted in rich yellows, decorated with our family memorabilia. The thousands of magnets on the fridge from our travels and souvenir gifts from friends practically covered it from top to bottom. My mamá, who was pouring coffee at the kitchen counter, was slightly shorter than me, with a warm, inviting presence. She had a soft, round face framed by her short, dark brown hair, which had streaks of silver peeking through, and she wore stylish glasses that accentuated her expressive brown eyes. We both shared the same nose, but her skin was so much more tanned than mine—something I always envied when we went somewhere sunny. I glanced over at the cause of my fair skin; my dad was sitting at the table, reading the paper. His fiery red hair, a vibrant shade like mine but lightened by age to a coppery hue, had started to show some whispers of white. He had a strong jawline and deep-set green eyes that twinkled with mischief. One time, I joked that his hair reminded me of a fox; he replied, wiggling his eyebrows, “I’m foxy!” Both my mamá and I rolled our eyes and giggled.

“Morning, mamá! Morning, dad!” I called out as I sat down at the table. I looked down at the spread and salivated. She had made pan tostado with huevos rotos and a side of bacon! 

“Mmmm, mamá, ¡eres la mejor!” I reached for the fork, but a spatula smacked my hand. I cried out in shock and looked up at my mamá, who was staring down at me. Yup, five-year-old me ran for the hills. I knew that look all too well. “Did you finish your project like you promised, niña?”

I hesitated while holding my smacked hand; it did hurt, but it felt like a reality check. My heart was racing as I looked up at her and glanced at my dad, whose eyes were peeking out from behind the newspaper. “Uh, well, sort of…” I said quietly, knowing full well I hadn’t done a thing.

“I was just… um, struggling on one bit.”

“Mmm-hmm.” My mamá crossed her arms, an eyebrow raised. “Struggling, huh? You mean you were with Carter?” My jaw dropped stupidly, and my cheeks flushed.

“What? Noooo!” I protested a little too loudly. “I was—”

“Don’t lie to me, Elena,” she cut in, a knowing smirk on her lips. “The neighbours saw him come over. They commented on the fabulousness of his car as your father collected the morning paper.”

We both looked at my dad, and his face matched his hair. Traitor… I softly glared at him. But then I sighed; no, it wasn’t his fault—it was mine. My stomach dropped as I softly replied, “Okay, I didn’t finish it.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She leaned in, her tone shifting to something more serious. “You know you’re almost twenty-one, right? You need to take your responsibilities seriously. I worry about you getting sidetracked, mi amor.” This wasn’t the first time I had heard this. When I started dating Carter, my grades dipped, and this project was supposed to be my comeback to pick up my grades, but I honestly found the subject—no, the whole degree—insufferable! I couldn’t tell her that.

When I didn’t respond, she sighed and said in a softer tone, “We just want you to have a bright future, Elena.” She looked over at my dad, and he nodded in agreement. I could tell there was a hint of disappointment in her voice. “You’re so smart, but you won’t get anywhere if you don’t apply yourself.”

“I promise I will finish it,” I said quickly, feeling the weight of both their gazes. “I just hit a bit of a mental block and got distracted. I plan to work on it straight after breakfast.”

My mamá's expression softened, but a hint of worry crept into her tone. “Just remember, mi amor, we will always be here to help you, but you have to meet us halfway.”

I nodded, forcing a smile. The weight of their expectations felt heavy on me—almost suffocating. What else could I do? I could never quite figure out what I wanted or fight for it.

This was a bit too heavy for breakfast. My dad must have sensed it; he cleared his throat and set the newspaper on the table. “Uh, when I was driving last night, I saw a particularly decent cabinet someone callously threw away.” My eyes brightened, and I looked over at my mamá, who was setting down coffee cups. Oh, this was going to be good. 

My mamá rolled her eyes, looking at him over her glasses. “Ay, Tobias, tell me you didn’t bring home another piece of basura again!” He grinned wider.

“Yes, but that wasn’t the best part, Maria!” Suddenly, he seemed to grow younger, his face lighting up with excitement. “So, there I was, struggling to get the thing onto Murray”—the name of my dad’s truck; he loved naming his cars—“and one of the drawers slid out and fell, making quite the noise. What I saw will shock and amaze you!”

I groaned. “Dad, you sound like one of those clickbait posts.” I took a sip of my coffee, and my mamá followed suit, needing it to settle her nerves. Our garage was already overflowing with Dad’s projects.

“Inside the drawers were old recipe books! Maria, you need to see these. They are books our parents would have used.” I exchanged a knowing look with my mamá, and we both started laughing.

“What?” My dad looked deflated, and we both sobered at his expression. Aw, crap. My mamá smiled and said, “Okay, let’s see them.” He jumped up from the table, and I took the opportunity to start eating. When your mamá makes a good hot breakfast, you take every chance you can get!

Dad rushed back, plopping a stack of old recipe books down on the table. The plates and cups rattled as he set them down. He opened the first book and showed it to my mamá. “Look, they belonged to an older person, perhaps our parents’ generation, who really loved to cook.”

We leaned in as he flipped through the pages, revealing recipes that looked forty to fifty years old, complete with handwriting in the margins. It was actually kind of cool.

I glanced at my dad; his gaze seemed distant. “They probably wanted to cook professionally but couldn’t due to home life demands. They would have loved to go to cooking school.”

My mamá raised an eyebrow. “How could you possibly know that, Tobias?”

He blinked, a smile spreading across his face. “Just a guess. Sometimes I like to make up stories about the owners of the things I find.” He shrugged his shoulders, and my mamá smirked and went back to reading the recipe books. 

After breakfast, I washed the dishes and quickly tidied up the kitchen. I ran up the stairs, still in my pyjamas, and plopped into my chair, hyping myself up to finish this project. I got this. I can totally do this. I’m a superstar at project management.

But as the laptop screen brightened, my mood darkened. The empty page of my Word document stared back at me, full of high expectations. Ay, I’m in for a struggle. No, I argued with myself. You can do this. Just write it!

That was probably the best advice I could have given myself—just write it. I spent a solid hour and a half working through the darn thing. There were probably some good bits, but a lot of rubbish. Still, I figured I could always go back and edit.

I glanced at the clock: it was eleven-thirty. Carter was coming by after twelve. I was already looking forward to the coffee. I stood, stretching, and headed to my dresser. I decided on a white long-sleeve top, a black mini skirt, and spotty tights. Definitely going to look cute with my boots, I thought.

After dressing, I tried to tame my wild waves, tying my hair into a side ponytail, carefully pulling out a few strands to frame my face. That’s when I realized I hadn’t told my parents Carter was coming over, and I panicked. I glanced up at the lotus on my Clarity poster. I always used it to keep me grounded.

I took a deep breath, exhaled, and steeled myself for chaos.