Page 3 of Embers of Midnight
I put water on. The pot is older than my adult life and a little warped, but it does what it can. The burner throws a weak blue ring and the window over the sink breathes frost on the edges, the tape in the cracked frame holding as well as my patience. Steam climbs; the room fogs a little; my shoulders unwind by degrees. Small mercies count.
I toe off my boots and line them by the wall where the paint curls like it’s trying to escape. The uniform apron drops on the chair, still carrying the diner—bacon grease, coffee, the sweet sour of pie that sold out three hours into my shift because the lunch crowd is built different in winter. I consider a shower, then decide getting warm food into my body wins. Hygiene can wait until later.
The water reaches that almost-boil with a ring of tiny pearls that never commit. Story of my life. I snap the ramen brick in half because I’ve learned to like the illusion of seconds. The packet promises chicken but is mostly salt. Noodles soften; I poke them with a fork and watch them loosen like muscles after a fight.
There’s a rhythm in the apartment at night. The radiator ticks and pushes heat like a reluctant friend. Pipes shift. Outside, a plow grinds down the street and throws sparks when it hits the curb. Snow keeps falling anyway. Alaska does what it wants. I respect the audacity and also I hate it a little.
I add the flavor dust, stir until the water looks like it knows what it’s doing, and slide the pot off the heat. The steam smacks my face; I breathe it in, gratefully, like warmth is a high I can still afford. I eat standing up with the fork I trust, because the best chair in this apartment is my bed and the table wobbles on a folded pizza menu.
Is it good? Not really. Is it survival? Absolutely. The first mouthful scalds my tongue and that’s the best part. Pain means hot. Hot means alive. By bite four I’m not thinking about the fact that my bank app is a horror novel. By bite six I’m planning a heist in which I steal time, sleep, and a decent bra. By the last bite I’m just full enough to be human and not a cranky ghost.
The bowl lands in the sink with a gentle clink. I run water until the steam ghosts the window, then decide Future Me can fight the noodle glue. Present Me is a tyrant about rest. I click off the kitchen light and the apartment turns into a dim box with familiar edges. The rent devil sulks but doesn’t follow. Not tonight.
My bedroom is also my living room is also the space where dreams go to die. The bed takes up most of it and has the structural integrity of a stubborn cloud. The mattress squeaks when I sit; I apologize to no one. I peel off socks, then jeans, andpull on a softer pair of sweats that have survived more winters than most relationships I know.
There’s a stack of books by the bed—used shop trophies with cracked spines and dog-eared pages. On top: the favorite. The kind with a heroine who says yes to the trouble in her blood and no to anyone who says she’s too much. She gets to pick her own fate and four alarmingly competent men to help lift it. I like to pretend I read it ironically. I also like to pretend I don’t cry at chapter seventeen. We all lie to ourselves about something.
I climb under the blanket and let the old cotton trap the heat the ramen started. My breath warms the small space I’ve carved, and the tension in my shoulders doesn’t so much dissolve as file a complaint and then go outside for a smoke. The upstairs neighbor coughs again. The building answers with a metallic creak. We’re all doing our best.
The book opens on the same line I’ve read a dozen times. The page smells like dust and thumb oil; the paper rasp under my fingers is a sound I trust. The heroine kicks open a door she isn’t supposed to know exists. I swallow a sound that might be envy. My version of a door is a portal to a break room with a broken microwave, and that’s on a good day.
I read anyway. Words smooth out the edges of the shift I just survived. Morning rush. Lunch rush. A kid who spilled hot cocoa and I cleaned it before his lower lip could wobble far enough to summon tears. A couple that sat in my section and argued in whispers like war was a hobby. A trucker who tipped two dollars on a twelve-dollar bill and left me a gospel tract like salvation pays rent. Whatever. I lived. I can do it again.
My stomach makes a small, stubborn noise and then quiets. The radiator gives me an extra push as if it heard. Heat crawls over my shins and parks there. I flex my toes and rub at the arch of my left foot where the ache has been living since the holidays. Work wants a piece of everyone. It took a slice of me and I let it. That feels like surrender and it feels like pride and I don’t have the energy to debate which.
On the page, the heroine makes a bad decision on purpose and it works out because fiction is kind. I let my head fall back against the wall and breathe slow. In. Out. Air moves. Stress loosens. I don’t do meditation apps; I do counting breaths and pretending the ceiling is not one good sigh away from dropping plaster on my face. It helps. Barely, but it helps.
The street outside goes quiet in the way that means the plows are between passes and the drunk guy on the corner decided to sing somewhere warmer. Snow hisses against the window in a soft, persistent way like someone shushing the world. My hands stop feeling like talons. My jaw relaxes. The book tilts, weight settling into my palm.
I think about the hero thing. Not capes and speeches—just the part where someone like me reaches for something bigger and doesn’t get slapped for it. I think about what more would even look like. Not fame. Not money, though I would absolutely not cry about money. More feels like waking up with a reason that isn’t just survival. A spine that isn’t all scar tissue. A laugh that doesn’t sound like a defense.
Would I ever admit any of that out loud? No. Please. I have a reputation with exactly one person: me. I roll my eyes at myselfand turn the page and pretend I’m above wishing while my whole chest aches like I swallowed a star that forgot how to burn.
The radiator knocks twice, a weird little heartbeat, and then evens out. I tuck my chin down and pull the blanket up to my ears. My breath fogs for a second before the heat wins. I rub my thumb over a crease in the paper until it smooths, then over again because habit is comfort.
I could text someone if I had a someone. Coworkers don’t count. The only person who would answer after midnight is the manager, and he would send me a photo of the pie case like it qualifies as intimacy. I’m good. I’m fine. Alone is not the same as lonely unless I let it be. That’s the lie I pick tonight and I’m sticking to it.
The book slides down to the notch between my ribs and the mattress. I close my eyes for one blink too long and the words blur into the kind of soft that means sleep is hunting me with a net. I fight it because stubborn is a brand now, then sigh because fighting sleep is stupid when I have to be up in six hours to pretend pancakes are my calling.
I promise myself I’ll do the budget again tomorrow and find a miracle. I promise myself I’ll ask for an extra shift if someone calls out. I promise myself I’ll be braver in small ways—the kind no one sees. A better tip jar eye contact. A real breakfast instead of caffeine and sarcasm. Maybe I’ll even call the number on the flyer for the community class in self-defense, because if life insists on being a brawl, I might as well learn to swing.
My chest rises and falls. The room hums. The blanket pins me to the mattress with a steady weight that convinces my pulse to stop pacing. My mouth tastes like salt and cheap broth and the ghost of lemon. I yawn hard enough to make my eyes water and then laugh at myself because wow, what an attractive sound to echo around an empty room.
I stare at the ceiling and let the thought I never say out loud unfold in the quiet like a note slid under a door. I want more. Not a new apartment or a better schedule, though, again, not against it. I want the blade-edge of my life to soften. I want to stop bracing for the next thing that hurts. I want a reason that isn’t survival. I want a story that doesn’t chew me up for sport.
“More,” I whisper, because the room won’t tell anyone. The word leaves my mouth warm and vanishes into steam and old paint. It’s silly. It still feels good. It lands in my chest and settles like a coal that might catch if I breathe right.
The book tilts again. My grip loosens. Somewhere, a pipe groans and then relaxes, the same way my body does when I choose not to care for five blessed minutes. I turn my face into the pillow and let my breath warm the cotton. My eyes drift. My hand finds the corner of the page and stays there because I will absolutely pretend I didn’t fall asleep mid-sentence.
Outside, the wind blows against the building. Inside, everything slows. Rent will still be there tomorrow with a smirk and a stopwatch. The world will still demand more than I have to give and I’ll still try to give it anyway. For now, it’s just me and heat and the weight of a book on my ribs that feels like a promise I can borrow.
I think about chapter seventeen where the heroine finally stops running from herself and everything changes, and I smile into the pillow because fiction is kinder than reality and because I like the part where she lets people stand next to her without flinching. I try out the idea the way you press a bruise with two fingers—carefully, curious about the pain.
Sleep walks in without knocking. My last clear thought is petty and honest: if the universe is taking requests, I’ll have the deluxe package—less fear, more joy, and the kind of kiss you feel in your knees. Fine, also a raise. I’m not a saint.
The book slides the rest of the way from my hand and lands against my stomach. My breath evens. Heat settles under the blanket like a friendly animal. The apartment hums itself into a lullaby it never learned on purpose.
By the time the radiator sighs again, I’m gone.
