The fog curled around San Francisco like a lover's whisper, cold and intimate, as my plane descended through the autumn haze. The city sprawled below, a mosaic of steep hills and glowing lights, humming with the distant clatter of cable cars. It was beautiful, chaotic, and restless mirroring the storm inside me. As the wheels kissed the tarmac, a familiar jolt snapped me from my reverie. I wasn't here for the postcard views or the nostalgia of a city I once called home. I was here for the Raun Energy Project a high-stakes venture that could make or break my career.
The hotel room smelled of crisp linen and faintly of the bay's salt. I threw my suitcase on the bed and dove into work: proposals stacked like battle plans, site visits mapped out, and a nightly ritual of calls with James, my rock in this whirlwind. His voice, steady and laced with dry humor, grounded me.
"You're running on fumes and hubris, Lina," he said one midnight, his face pixelated on my laptop screen.
I smirked, sipping lukewarm coffee. "Don't forget the garnish of existential dread."
"Gourmet," he deadpanned, but his eyes softened. "Eat something real, okay?"
Christian, on the other hand, was a persistent tide, texting daily with quiet care. How's your day?Are you eating enough?Buried in work again? His messages glowed on my phone, each one a tether I didn't know how to hold.
I cared, God, I did, but my replies were clipped: Fine.Busy. Sometimes just a cold seen. Not because he didn't matter, but because letting him into the chaos of my world felt like opening a door I couldn't close.
One evening, my phone buzzed with his name. I hesitated, then answered.
"You don't have to talk," Christian said, his voice soft, like a hand extended through the static. "I just… wanted to hear you breathe."
I shut my laptop, the weight of the day pressing against my ribs. "Christian, I'm drowning in this project. I need to focus."
"And pushing everyone away keeps you afloat?" His tone was gentle, but the question cut.
"It keeps things simple," I snapped, sharper than I meant.
A pause stretched between us. "Simple," he said finally, "isn't always right."
there was nothing but a pause between. With that, I hung up the call. sometimes it feels like Christian knows me too much.
Two weeks blurred by in a haze of site visits and boardroom battles. James and I combed through the old office wing of a defunct company tied to Raun's history, the air thick with dust and forgotten ambition. That's when I found it.
In a sagging cardboard box, beneath yellowed memos, was a photograph. Black-and-white, edges curling like autumn leaves. A team posed stiffly, but in the background, half-obscured by a stranger's shoulder, was a face that stopped my heart.
It couldn't be.
I'd buried that face years ago, mourned it until the grief carved hollows in my soul. Yet there he was, staring out from a decades-old snapshot, alive in a way that defied reason.
My hands shook as I slipped the photo into my notebook. The room spun. Fear and hope clashed like swords in my chest, and I whispered to the empty air, "This isn't possible."
The next day, I flew to Cape Town for the Global Summit and a critical diamond deal with a potential partner. But even amidst political handshakes and negotiations, my mind kept drifting back to the photograph.
The Global Summit buzzed with power plays and polished smiles, the air heavy with the promise of a diamond deal that could cement Raun's future. But the photograph haunted me, a ghost I couldn't shake. Every handshake, every flash of a camera felt distant, my mind tethered to that impossible face.
Sarah joined me after sealing a collaboration with Christian, her energy a stark contrast to my unraveling. Her fashion brand, La Bella, was soaring, and she radiated triumph. Christian had guided her through the deal with his quiet strength, and despite my distance, he lingered in my orbit, checking in, offering support, a shadow of kindness I didn't deserve.
At the summit, I wore a tailored black suit, my armor against the world. Political leaders nodded, deals inched forward, but Sarah saw through me. Over coffee, her eyes narrowed.
"You okay, Lina?" she asked, stirring her latte. "You look… haunted."
I forced a smile, practiced and hollow. "Just tired."
"Tired doesn't make you flinch at shadows."
I didn't answer. How could I?
That night, sleep eluded me. The hotel room felt like a cage, the photograph burning a hole in my mind. I needed air, needed to outrun the questions clawing at me. Careful not to wake Sarah, I slipped into the cool Cape Town night, the streets quiet save for the murmur of distant waves.
I wandered until a small restaurant caught my eye, its wooden sign adorned with faded photos of past patrons smiling families, laughing friends. My gaze drifted over them, lazy at first, until it snagged on one image.
There, in the background of a couple's photo, blurred but unmistakable, was him. The same man from the San Francisco snapshot. Same jawline, same piercing eyes.
Lightning coursed through me. My breath caught, sharp and painful. What was this? A coincidence? A cruel cosmic joke?
I stumbled back to the hotel, the world tilting beneath my feet. My hands trembled as I scribbled a note: Don't look for me. I'll be back soon. I left it beside my phone, the one tied to this life, this Lina.
From my backpack, I pulled another phone, one I hadn't touched in years. It hummed to life, tied to a name I'd buried, a shadow I'd sworn never to resurrect. Passport in hand, I stepped into the night, the stars above cold and unyielding.
And then I was gone.