Page 11 of The Cost of Silence

I feel the ache in my chest again, not grief exactly, but absence. He would’ve called me “his brave girl” after the article. He would’ve told me not to back down. Instead, it’s just me.

Maybe that’s what being an adult really is, learning to hold your victories alone.

I finish my coffee and pull the box of decorations from the closet. It’s heavier than I remember, or maybe I’m just tired. When I peel the tape back, the smell of cinnamon, pine, and old paper fills the air.

The first ornament I pull out is a snow globe. The same one my dad bought me at a street fair when I was nine. Inside, a tiny town glitters beneath fake snow, still perfect, untouched. I shake it gently, watching the flakes swirl and fall.

“Here we go again,” I whisper, setting it on the shelf.

One by one, I string the lights along the window frame. They flicker to life, each one a tiny defiance against the gray November sky. When the playlist shifts to Sinatra, I can’t help but hum along. Christmas has always been my armor. My proof that light can exist, even in the coldest season.

Halfway through untangling the garland, my phone buzzes on the counter. Maya.

I put her on speaker as I hang the last strand of lights. “Morning, partner in crime.”

Her voice is bright and teasing. “Morning, Miss Front Page. I’ve spent all morning reading your quotes out loud just to feel important when I should be doing laundry.”

I laugh, soft and genuine. “I’m sure your cat’s impressed.”

“She’s my biggest fan. And, also, the only one who didn’t call to warn me about you being on someone’s shit list.”

I pause mid-step. “They’re exaggerating.”

“Are they? Because the internet’s calling you fearless and reckless in the same sentence.”

“I prefer ‘committed to truth’.”

“Yeah, that’s one way to spin it.” Her tone softens. “You okay, Iz?”

“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just… a little tired. Thinking I might hibernate till December.”

“Ha! You’d never make it a week without caffeine or chaos.”

“Maybe.” I smile, even though she can’t see it. “Go get some laundry done, I don’t want to sit next to you at work in last week’s socks.” I hear the snort of laughter. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

When I hang up, the quiet feels bigger. The kind that settles behind your ribs.

I turn off the music, letting the silence hum.

It’s not that I’m lonely, not exactly. I have people. Friends, work, my mom. But there’s a difference betweenhavingpeople andbelongingsomewhere. I don’t think I’ve ever really belonged to anyone.

Maybe one day, I will.

Maybe.

By evening, the decorations glow softly against the dark. My fingers smell faintly of pine and wax. The air feels warmer now, cozier.

I throw on jeans, a sweater, and my camel coat. The red scarf, my favorite, loops twice around my neck. I glance in the mirror, tugging at a loose strand of hair. “Dinner,” I tell my reflection. “Around the corner. Ten minutes. Be brave.”

The diner’s only two blocks away. It smells like frying oil and nostalgia, the kind of place that makes loneliness tastebetter. I order grilled cheese and tomato soup, scroll through congratulatory messages, and pretend the world isn’t humming with quiet threat.

When my phone buzzes again, I glance down.

Unknown number:Pretty lights.

My stomach drops.

“Everything, okay, Miss?” I glance up at the older man behind the counter in surprise and see concern on his face. I shake my head to clear it and then smile. “Yeah, just an unknown caller, it’s probably spam.”