Gotham

As Rose approached the entrance of the supermarket, her phone rang, slicing through the dull hum of her surroundings. She answered it distractedly, balancing a crumpled list in one hand. “Mom, you just gave me the list. What now—”

Her mother’s voice came through, shaky and broken, each word tethered to a sob. “Rose, sweetie...you need to come home.”

She stopped mid-step, the world narrowing to the sound of her mother’s trembling breath. “Mom? Why are you crying?” A knot of unease began to twist in her chest, pulling tighter with every second of silence.

Then came the words that shattered her world. “Your grandma... she’s gone.”

In that instant, Rose stood utterly still, the chaos of the parking lot around her blurring into nothing. Time folded in on itself, her breath catching, her pulse hammering in her ears. Her knees wavered as though the ground had shifted beneath her, threatening to give way.

“What? No... please, tell me you’re joking,” she whispered into the phone, her voice raw and fragile, as though speaking any louder might shatter her entirely. But the sobs on the other end of the line were answer enough. Reality clawed its way in, rough and ruthless.

She turned, her body moving on instinct as her mind recoiled in disbelief. Somehow, she found herself back at the car, her trembling hands gripping the wheel. The engine roared to life, but her foot faltered on the gas. Tears flooded her eyes, obscuring the road ahead. She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think beyond the ache threatening to consume her.

Her thoughts spiraled, unspooling memories of her grandmother—her warmth, her kindness, the way her love seemed to stretch beyond measure. Even the physical distance between them had never dulled their bond. But now… now there was only the suffocating emptiness where her grandmother’s presence had been, a gaping void that no amount of time or tears could ever fill.

“How did it happen?” Rose asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. She was home now, the drive having dulled the initial shock, though the ache still pulsed beneath the surface, relentless and raw.

Her mother Danielle, eyes swollen and red, dabbed at fresh tears with trembling hands. “The postman found her,” she said, her words faltering. “She was sitting in her chair on the porch, just like always, in the middle of the day. At first, he thought she was asleep, but when he realized she wasn’t breathing...” Her voice broke, and she paused to collect herself, though her grief was evident in every strained breath. “He called the paramedics, but... There was nothing anyone could do.”

The sound of her sobs filled the room, raw and uncontainable. They cut through the heavy silence like shards of glass, a painful reminder that this loss wasn’t just Rose’s–it was her mother’s too.

“When’s the funeral?” Rose asked, her throat tightening around the words. She fought to keep her voice steady, even as it threatened to crack under the weight of her grief.

Her father Blake, who had remained quiet until now, finally spoke. His tone was calm, but his face showed the strain he carried. “Tomorrow,” he said gently, sitting down beside her. His presence offered a quiet kind of comfort, anchoring her amidst the storm swirling around them.

For a long time, none of them spoke. The shared silence was thick with sorrow, a weight they bore together without needing to say a word. After some time, Rose stood and excused herself, retreating to the quiet of her room.

Once there, she lay on her bed, the events of the day pressing down on her like a physical weight. She knew she needed to sleep–she felt the weight of tomorrow before it even arrived–but the thought of finding rest felt impossible. Still, she closed her eyes, hoping, if only for a moment, to escape the chaos in her heart and her head.

After the funeral, held in the small, lovely town of Mystic, Connecticut, the family lingered at the cemetery, reluctant to leave. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, and the faint sound of waves crashing in the distance added to the surreal atmosphere. After some time, they returned to Rose’s grandmother’s house, a place brimming with memories and now an almost unbearable stillness. Her mother had decided they would stay one more day, needing time to gather some of her mother’s things to bring back to New York.

The silence in the living room felt suffocating, an undeniable reminder of their shared grief. Finally, Rose’s father broke it. “I’m hungry. Aren’t you?” he asked, his voice calm but tired. “Is there somewhere we can get food?”

None of them knew Mystic well. Cecilia had always been the one to visit them, making this house–and the town it belonged to–feel oddly foreign.

“I’ll go see if I can find something,” Rose offered. She needed air, an excuse to escape the overwhelming weight of the house for a little while.

Stepping outside, she wandered the quiet streets. Mystic was unlike New York in every possible way. Here, the world seemed to hold its breath, the stillness so profound it felt as though time itself had slowed. The name of the town felt fitting, almost poetic, as if it stood on the edge of something unknowable.

Her footsteps led her past a worn down building with soft light spilling from its windows. It could have been a coffee shop or maybe a pub—the kind of place with a dual identity and a charm that spoke of history. Curious, Rose hesitated before pushing open the door.

Warmth greeted her first, along with the mixed scents of brewed coffee and something stronger. Inside, only a couple of people were in the room, their quiet presence adding to the stillness she wasn’t used to. In New York, everything was movement and noise; here, even the silence felt intentional.

She approached the counter, but before she could speak, a low voice from the center of the room caught her attention. “Who’s that?” The question was directed at the bartender, but Rose felt the weight of the man’s gaze settle on her.

He sat alone at a table, wearing a black leather jacket over a faded shirt with a barely visible print. A glass of something dark, whiskey, maybe, in his hand. His presence seemed at odds with the quiet charm of the place, like a shadow that didn’t belong in the light.

Rose turned toward him, her expression neutral. “If you don’t know who I am,” she said, meeting his gaze, “I doubt the bartender will. You look like someone who knows everyone around here.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he said nothing, lifting his glass in a silent toast before returning his attention to his drink. Rose shifted her focus to the bartender, who was polishing a glass behind the counter.

“Sorry to bother you,” she began, “but do you know where I can get some food around here?”

The bartender paused, then nodded. “Mystic Pizza. Best place in town. You won’t regret it.”

“Where is it?” she asked, relieved for the recommendation.

Before the bartender could reply, the man in the leather jacket spoke up again, his voice rough but clear. “56 West Main Street.”

“Thanks,” Rose replied, giving him a polite nod. He raised his glass slightly in acknowledgment, his smirk lingering as if he knew more than he let on.

As Rose turned to leave, the man’s presence seemed to follow her out the door. She stepped into the cool evening air, her thoughts already on Mystic Pizza, when his voice called out behind her. “Hey, you.”

She stopped, glancing over her shoulder. “Yes, sir?”

“Don’t call me ‘sir,’” he said with a faint chuckle, closing the gap between them. “I’m not that old.” He extended a hand. “And you are?”

“Rose,” she said, shaking his hand briefly before resuming her walk.

“And your name?” she asked, realizing he hadn’t introduced himself.

He didn’t answer, his pace steady beside her but his focus somewhere else entirely. The silence between them stretched until Rose finally stopped and faced him. “Why are you following me?”

He hesitated, as if he hadn’t considered the question before. “Yeah, good question,” he muttered, then suddenly turned down a narrow alley and disappeared into the shadows without another word.

Rose stood there, staring after him, confused. The encounter felt unreal, like something out of a dream. Shaking her head, she continued toward Mystic Pizza, Her mind was split between her hunger and the strange interaction.

Later, back at her grandmother’s house, she sat with her family in silence, picking at slices of pizza and lost in their own worlds. Exhaustion eventually pulled Rose to bed, but sleep didn’t come easily. Her mind kept circling back to the man in the leather jacket—the way he’d watched her, his cryptic demeanor. He shouldn’t have mattered, not on a day like this, but somehow, he did. Something about him lingered, refusing to be ignored.