Chapter 9
477words
Stephen Mitchell, my old film school mentor, met me at the airport and whisked me straight to the noodle shop I'd been dreaming about for years.
Back in college, this hole-in-the-wall joint had been our Saturday ritual.
The shop hadn't changed—same worn booths, same steamy windows, same comforting aroma.
The owner's face lit up as he slid an extra plate of spicy pickled radish across the counter.
"Look at you—still can't eat noodles without double radish on the side!"
I slurped the fiery broth and shot him a guilty smile.
"Damn, that's some memory you've got."
The owner thumped his chest proudly.
"For my regulars? I remember everything—right down to how many chili flakes they want."
"Now Director Mitchell here has some real quirks. He always—"
"That's enough, old man," Stephen cut in quickly.
His ears turned pink as he waved the owner off.
I bit back a smile, wondering what embarrassing noodle-eating habits my famous friend was hiding.
The days that followed felt like breathing fresh air after years underwater.
Stephen found me a cottage on a quiet street—perfect for losing myself in screenplays.
We'd meet up with other film school alumni for drinks, laughing over old mistakes and dreaming up collaborations.
Slowly, naturally, I rediscovered the woman I'd been before—the screenwriter with fire in her veins.
Each day had purpose—setting goals and crushing them one by one.
No more walking on eggshells. No more emotional rollercoasters built on lies. No more losing myself to please someone else.
I thought this peace would last forever.
Until that stormy night when desperate pounding shook my door.
Marcus Morgan stood in the darkness, rain-soaked and shivering—a ghost wearing the face of someone I once knew.
The man who once obsessed over every hair being in place now stood before me utterly wrecked.
Wet hair plastered to his forehead, dripping onto my threshold.
His bloodshot eyes locked onto mine, wild with desperation.
His lips trembled, forming words that wouldn't come.
Then he lunged forward, crushing me in his arms.
Cold rainwater seeped through my clothes as I struggled against his grip.
He clung to me with desperate strength while I fought to break free.
His breath was hot against my ear.
"Found you," he rasped. "Finally found you."
His voice broke on those words. When I finally shoved him back, his eyes rolled up and he crumpled to the floor.
The doctor said his fever had hit 104 degrees. In his delirium, he kept calling my name.
I asked them to call someone who could look after him.
The doctor found only one number in his recent calls—unreachable.
I recognized it immediately—the phone I'd left at my mother's grave.
With a sigh, I gave them another number.
By the time Melanie Sinclair rushed in, I was already gone.
