Page 24 of Veil of the Past
I glance around, feeling a small sense of calm wash over me as I take in the familiar sights—the walls are a soft, warm gray, smooth, and unblemished, and the large abstract painting above the TV adds just the right pop of color—a swirl of deep blues and gold that reminds me of the ocean at sunset. I move toward the windows, my fingers trailing along the edge of the cream sectional as I go, and pause to look out at the view.
I notice a small stack of books on the glass console table by the window, left from my last attempt at a quiet night in. Mostly medical texts and a few novels I’ve been meaning to read. I run a finger over the spines and feel the crisp edge of pages I haven’t yet opened. I sigh and turn away, moving toward the kitchen, which is tucked to the side of the apartment, separated only by a sleek marble countertop.
The kitchen is all clean lines and modern surfaces, the white cabinets almost glowing in the dimming light. The space is spotless, every surface wiped clean, every utensil in its place. I brush my hand over the cool marble of the island, feeling its smoothness beneath my fingertips.
This is my home. The place I come back to after long nights and stressful shifts, the place where I’ve laughed, cried, and lived for years. But tonight, it feels different. The light feels softer, the shadows darker , the silence louder. I let out a deep breath as I sink onto the sofa, pulling a throw blanket around me, and I try to find comfort in the familiar surroundings.
11
ALESSIA
The hospital's fluorescent lights are too bright and too cold. I squint against them, rubbing the exhaustion from my eyes as I head toward the exit. My shift finally ended, and the ache in my feet is a dull throb. The world outside is still dark, the kind of early morning darkness that feels more like night clinging on, refusing to give way to dawn. I run my hand down my face, the warm air rushing to meet me as I step outside.
Romiro is waiting, leaning casually against his car. I notice he doesn’t have the usual coffee cup or pastry bag in hand, and something twists inside me—something small and sharp, but I swallow it down. His face is unreadable, his usually light eyes are clouded under the streetlight. I can’t tell if he’s angry, tired, or something else entirely.
He looks up as I approach, offering me a tight-lipped smile, the scar on his upper lip stretching but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey,” he says simply, opening the passenger door for me.
“Hey,” I mumble back as I slip in, feeling the familiar hum of his car vibrating beneath me. He shuts the door with a softclickand circles around to the driver’s side, sliding in without another word.
The silence between us is thick, nearly suffocating. I try to think of something to say, something to break through the tension hanging in the air, but I don’t know where to start. The car pulls away from the curb, and I finally manage, “So, where are we going?”
He glances over at me, his expression still carefully neutral. “The diner,” he replies, his voice low, clipped. “Thought we should talk somewhere… quieter.”
My heart sinks a little, and I nod, biting my lip. The diner. Our diner. The little hole-in-the-wall diner. The place we used to sneak off to as teenagers, escaping the noise and chaos of our families. The place where we laughed over cheap coffee and greasy fries, where we told each other secrets that no one else knew. It feels like another lifetime.
The drive is short, but it feels like it stretches on forever. And I spend it sneaking glances at Romiro, trying to read his face, but he’s giving nothing away. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly, his jaw set. I feel a knot forming in my stomach, my anxiety growing with every minute of silence.
When we finally pull up to the diner, it looks almost the same as it always has—small, cozy, with its worn-out sign and its neon lights flickering slightly in the early morning dark. But there’s something different. It’s too quiet, no other cars in the lot, no movement inside.
Romiro steps out, coming around to open my door again, his movements quick, almost impatient. I follow him toward the entrance, my eyes flicking over the empty windows. “Is it closed?” I ask, my voice sounding smaller than I intended.
“No,” he says, pushing the door open. “I rented it out for us. Just us.”
I blink, surprised. “You… rented the whole place?”
He nods, not looking at me. “Yeah. Thought it would be easier that way.”
Easier. Right. I swallow down the sudden tightness in my throat and step inside. The warm, inviting smell of pancakes and fresh coffee fills the air, and for a moment, I feel a wave of nostalgia wash over me. The walls are covered in old photographs, black-and-white pictures of families, smiling faces caught in moments that feel timeless. The old-fashioned light bulbs hang low, casting a soft yellow glow over the empty booths.
The owner, Greta, an older woman with gray hair pulled back in a neat bun, gives us a small smile, her smile lines becoming more pronounced, from behind the counter. “Morning,” she greets softly, her eyes crinkling with kindness. “Your food’s almost ready. Just like old times, hmm?”
I force a smile, nodding. “Just like old times,” I echo, but my voice sounds hollow, even to my own ears. “How have you been, Greta?”
Greta nods her head, a soft smile still gracing her face. “Good, thank you, Alessia. How have you guys been?”
“Good, thank you for asking,” I tell her, and I see her face soften before she shoos us away to our corner. Romiro leads me to the booth near the back, the one we always sat in, away from the windows. The wooden seats are worn, the tabletop marked with years of memories. I slide in across from him, my hands folded in my lap, my heart beating too fast. He seems hesitant, almost like he doesn’t know where to start.
“Why did you rent out the whole place?” I ask softly, trying to meet his gaze.
He shrugs, his eyes drifting to the wall of photographs. “Wanted privacy,” he mutters. “Didn’t want anyone else listening in.”
I nod, waiting, but he doesn’t say anything more. The silence stretches, and I feel the knot in my stomach tighten. “Romiro… what happened last night? After the restaurant, I mean. You just… dropped me off and left. You didn’t say anything. I don’t understand.”
He sighs, running a hand through his dark hair, his gaze finally meeting mine. “What is there to understand, Alessia?” he replies, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. “It was… it was a mistake, okay? I got carried away;wegot carried away. And it shouldn’t have happened.”
I feel the words hit me like a slap, my breath catching in my throat. “Amistake?” I repeat, my voice barely a whisper. “You think it was a mistake?”
He nods, looking away again. “Yes. We… we crossed a line. A line we shouldn’t have.”
