"You're welcome." She turned to leave, giving Odette the space she clearly needed. But as she reached the door, she heard a faint voice behind her. "I'm tired of fighting ghosts." Jazzy paused, hand on the doorknob. She didn't turn around when she answered.
"Then maybe it's time we talk to the living." And with that, she stepped into the hallway, leaving behind a room warmer than it had been just hours before. And a woman who, for the first time in a long time, had accepted something without needing to understand it first. The first night under Jazzy's roof was quiet in a way that felt heavier than silence. Goldwin and Odette sat near the entrance for several minutes after stepping inside. Unsure whether to remove their coats, unsure whether this place was temporary shelter or the beginning of something else.
Jazzy didn't rush them, she simply pointed to the small guest room and said, "You can rest there. The bedding's clean." Her voice was warm, but not inviting. It was careful. She didn't smile, didn't hover. She turned and walked to the kitchen, leaving them space to choose what came next.
The apartment wasn't large, but it was meticulous.
The kind of clean that comes from routine and discipline, not fear. A faint scent of eucalyptus hung in the air, and the light from the floor lamp gave the living room a softness that didn't try too hard. Jazzy moved like someone who had lived alone for a long time and liked it that way. Every drawer had a rhythm, every mug its place. She knew where things were, even in the dark. Odette slept most of that first day.
Fever still clung to her body, and though the worst had passed, her strength came back slow and stubborn. Jazzy left food at the door, but never knocked. A bowl of broth, later slices of toast with apple butter. A day after that, a warm plate of rice and lentils with lemon on the side. Odette never said anything, but the dishes always came back empty, rinsed, and stacked neatly in the sink. That was how they communicated at first.
Goldwin was easier. He moved through the apartment with the comfort of someone who knew how to make himself small. He folded laundry without being asked. He swept the kitchen floor. He didn't speak much, but when he did, his words were soft, unobtrusive. In the evenings, he'd sit in the corner armchair and tell short stories about Roger, little things.
Once about the time Roger had climbed onto the roof at 10 years old, just to prove he could touch the weather vane. Another time about the night he stayed up late baking cookies for a girl at school only to burn every single one and try to hide the tray under his bed. Jazzy smiled at those stories, not every time, but often enough. Odette listened from the next room. She never joined them in the living area, but the door stayed cracked and her cough had grown softer. On the fifth day, she emerged briefly to take tea.
She didn't sit, just stood by the counter, sipped quietly, then nodded once, and returned to the guest room. It wasn't much, but it was the beginning of not running. One afternoon, Jazzy sat at the dining table responding to emails when her phone buzzed beside her. She picked it up quickly, glanced at the name on the screen, and smiled a rare private kind of smile, the kind you don't fake. She typed back a short reply, and set the phone down, her expression shifting almost immediately back to neutral. Goldwin, sitting across from her, had caught a glimpse of the contact name, Ryder.
He didn't ask, but his eyes lingered on her face for a second longer than usual. She noticed, but didn't speak. The next morning, Jazzy folded laundry in the living room. A pair of Odette's socks, thick with wear, lay beside a fresh white towel. She folded them gently, placed them on top of the pile, and left them outside the guest room. That evening, Odette emerged carrying the same socks now folded differently, sharper corners, more symmetrical.
She paused, stared at the bundle, then set them down in the same place Jazzy had left them. She didn't say a word. She walked away, but Jazzy saw it. The hesitation, the pause between rejection and acceptance. Later that week, a small moment broke the stillness. Goldwin, trying to boil water, dropped the kettle lid onto the tile.
It clanged loudly, spinning once before landing at Jazzy's feet. She bent down to grab it, laughing softly. Careful, Goldwin, she said. You're about to start a fire with chamomile. He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. To everyone's surprise, a short laugh came from behind them.
Odette, standing near the hallway with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, had seen the whole thing. The sound she made wasn't loud, but it was unmistakably a laugh, brief, almost startled, and then just as quickly it disappeared. She turned and walked away. No one mentioned it, but something shifted. That night, dinner was quiet, but not tense. Jazzy made roasted vegetables and couscous.
Goldwin talked about the first time he and Odette had eaten Moroccan food back in 79 when Roger was still a toddler, and they didn't know what couscous even was. Odette chewed slowly, her fork pausing midair when Goldwin spoke. Jazzy noticed, but didn't look up. Instead, she offered the olive bowl in Odette's direction. Odette took one. They did not speak of it.
On the ninth day, Odette found Jazzy standing in the kitchen boiling water. She lingered at the threshold. Jazzy poured a second mug without asking, placed it on the counter. Odette walked over, picked it up, but instead of leaving, she stayed. Her hand wrapped around the cup with a cautious grip. She didn't drink.
She looked at Jazzy, eyes steady. ""You keep this place very clean,"" she said. Jazzy didn't flinch. "It helps me breathe." Odette nodded slowly.
Then, quietly, she said, "I used to iron the sheets even in the summer." Jazzy smiled. "I don't even own an iron." They didn't laugh. But the silence between them lost its edge. For the first time, Jazzy saw in Odette's eyes not judgment, but something else.
Recognition, not agreement, but shared humanity. That night, Jazzy brewed ginger tea and placed it in front of the guest room wrapped in a napkin with a slice of lemon. She didn't knock. In the morning, the mug was on the counter, clean, dry, rinsed, and left exactly where she would leave it. Just afternoon, as Jazzy was returning from the grocery store, she pulled out her phone and smiled again at a text. Ryder.
She typed something back short but affectionate and paused before putting her phone away. She stood in the hall outside the apartment for a moment longer than necessary, her fingers brushing the back of the device. Inside, Odette sat at the dining table with a crossword puzzle from the paper. Goldwin brought one every Thursday. She looked up when Jazzy entered, then back at her page, but her eyes flicked once briefly to the phone in Jazzy's hand.
She didn't ask, "Not yet." But later that night, just before bed, Odette knocked lightly on Jazzy's door. She didn't come in. She just said one thing. "You sound different when you talk to him." Jazzy sat up from her chair, surprised, not quite sure how to answer.
She opened the door slowly, but Odette was already halfway down the hall. She watched the older woman disappear into her room. And just before the door shut completely, Jazzy replied softly enough for the words to follow through the quiet. "He brings out the part of me that never stopped hoping." It was just past noon when the knock came at the door. Jazzy was finishing lunch prep, stirring a pot of pasta on the stove, her sleeves rolled up, and the radio low in the background.