The real me. The woman your son loved. Odette swallowed hard and for the first time her voice faltered. "It was easier to hate you," she admitted, "than to accept that he chose you." Jazzy nodded once.
"I know, and you still can. That's your choice. But don't pretend he didn't love me, because he did. You know it." They stood in silence, the space between them full of years grief and unspoken truths. Goldwin remained at a distance, watching his hands in his coat pockets, his eyes dim with a sadness that hadn't faded since the day he lost his son.
Odette turned away first, sitting slowly back down on the bench. Her shoulders dropped just slightly, a posture that no longer carried the same armor as before. Jazzy didn't move to comfort her. She simply stood still, allowing the moment to land. Then she turned, walked back toward Goldwin, and together they left the park without another word. The bag of food still rested in the trash bin behind them, untouched, cooling in the winter air.
But the silence that followed wasn't as bitter as the one before. It was the kind of silence that comes after something real has been said, and there's nothing left to add. The wind had picked up since the morning, bringing with it a thin, sharp cold that cut through even the thickest coats. Jazzy walked briskly through the narrow alley that led behind the church, her gloved hands clutching a thermos and a small paper bag pressed close to her chest. Goldwin had called her less than an hour ago, his voice low but urgent, telling her he had found Odette slumped against the wall behind the cathedral's back door. She hadn't moved for what seemed like hours, and he was scared.
He hadn't said much more than that, and Jazzy hadn't needed more. She just said she'd come. When she turned the corner, she saw them. Goldwin stood a few feet away, arms folded tightly, shifting his weight from foot to foot as if the cold were bothering him more than usual. Odette sat hunched over, her coat collar pulled high around her chin, her scarf disheveled, her gloves missing. Her breathing was shallow but visible, and her eyes stared blankly ahead, unfocused.
Jazzy approached without a word. She knelt beside Odette, her knees touching the damp ground. Her voice came quietly, softly. "You're freezing. You need to get out of this cold." Odette didn't answer.
She didn't even blink, but she didn't pull away either. That was something. Jazzy opened the thermos, poured the steaming broth into the lid, and held it out gently, inches from Odette's gloved lap. "It's just broth. Warm, easy on your stomach." Odette blinked slowly, then turned her head.
And for the first time, she looked directly at Jazzy. Her eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with pink, and tired in a way that went beyond illness. Her expression was unreadable at first. No hatred, no anger, just weariness, a kind of hollow fatigue that made Jazzy's breath catch.
She held the cup steady. A full 5 seconds passed before Odette reached out. Her hand trembled as she took the lid from Jazzy's fingers, and for a split second, their skin brushed. It wasn't the touch that stunned Jazzy. It was the look. Odette's eyes in that single fleeting moment flickered with something she hadn't shown before.
Not defiance, not bitterness, but confusion. Like she didn't know what to do with kindness that wasn't pity. Her grip was loose as if she wasn't sure she deserved to hold anything warm, but she didn't let go. She brought the cup slowly to her lips and took a small sip. Her throat moved once and she winced slightly, but then she drank again, this time longer. Jazzy stood and unzipped the thick blanket she had folded under her arm.
She draped it over Odette's shoulders without fanfare, not tucking it in, not fussing, just laying it down with the care of someone who wasn't there to fix, but to help. Odette didn't protest. She didn't thank her either, but she pulled the edges of the blanket closer together herself, which was enough. Goldwin let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and moved a little closer, placing a hand on the backrest of the bench, but not sitting. Jazzy turned to him.
"We need to get her inside somewhere warm. A clinic, maybe. She's burning up." Goldwin nodded.
"There's a church shelter open tonight. I can get them to take her in if we bring her." Jazzy crouched again and looked Odette in the eye.
"You don't have to talk, but you have to let us help you just this once." Odette didn't speak, but after a long pause, she gave a barely perceptible nod. That was enough. Between them, they helped her to her feet. She moved slowly like every bone in her body had grown heavier. But she didn't resist.
The walk to the shelter was silent. Jazzy walked on one side, Goldwin on the other. Odette, blanketed and quiet, leaned slightly more on Jazzy than she would probably care to admit. The shelter was warm and smelled faintly of disinfectant and old wood. The volunteer at the desk recognized Goldwin and nodded them through. They were given a small room with a cot, a heater, and clean linens.
Jazzy helped ease Odette down onto the mattress and removed her shoes gently. She set the thermos beside the bed, then stepped back to give her space. Odette lay down without protest. Her breathing was slower now, more even. Jazzy stood by the door, unsure if she should speak, but Odette surprised her.
"You think this makes us even?" Her voice was low and rough. Jazzy didn't move. "No, it makes us human." Odette stared at the ceiling, eyes half-lidded. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the hum of the wall heater.
"You didn't have to come," she said finally. "I know. But you did." Jazzy looked at her, not with pride, not with triumph, but with something quieter, something closer to understanding. "He would have done the same," she said.
"For someone I loved." Odette turned her head slightly on the pillow. Her face looked softer now, framed by the blanket, flushed from fever, but no longer tense with disdain.
She blinked slowly. "I spent years building walls around the pain, around the memories." I thought it would keep me safe. All it did was keep me alone. Jazzy stepped closer but didn't sit. She nodded.
"We all survive how we know. Sometimes we have to unlearn it." Odette closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, they were glassy with fatigue. "Thank you for the broth," she whispered. Jazzy offered a small smile.