Matilda Anderson's pov
I woke to the jolt of the train slowing down. The air inside the cargo car was freezing, my thin coat doing little to keep the cold from sinking into my bones. My body ached from curling up between crates all night, but i didn't dare move too much. Not until i was sure it was safe.Through the cracks in the wooden planks, caught glimpses of the city Brightwater.smoke curled from tall chimneys. Buildings stretched high, their brick walls covered in grime and faded posters. Streets bustled with people in thick coats, their hurried steps echoing against cobblestones.
Nothing like Hollow Creek.My stomach twisted with fear and excitement. I had never been anywhere this big before. No one knew me here. That meant i was safe.
The train hissed as it came to a stop. Workers moved along the platform, unloading crates, shouting orders. If i waited too long, someone would check the cargo hold.
Time to go.
I took a deep breath and crept toward the open door. A worker's back was turned, busy rolling a cart of supplies. Now. I leaped down, landing hard on the platform. Pain shot through my knees, but i forced myself to move.i weaved through the crowd, keeping my head low, walking fast but not too fast. Don't look like you're running. Don't act suspicious.
The cold wind stung my face as i stepped onto the main road. I was alone. No money. No home. No plan.my stomach growled painfully. I hadn't eaten since,i didn't even know when.
I needed a place to go. A way to survive.
Up ahead, the smell of fresh bread and coffee drifted through the air. A small, tucked-away café with a faded blue sign sat on the corner. The kind of place where no one asked too many questions.
I hesitated for only a second before stepping inside.The Bluebell Café
A small bell jingled as i stepped inside. Warmth wrapped around me like a blanket, chasing away the bitter cold from the streets. The café was tiny just a few wooden tables, a counter displaying fresh bread and pastries, and a single fireplace crackling in the corner.
A few customers sat hunched over cups of coffee, their conversations low and unbothered. No one paid me any attention.
My stomach twisted with hunger as the smell of butter and sugar filled her nose. I hadn't eaten in what felt like days.Behind the counter stood a woman older, round-faced, with gray-streaked hair pulled into a bun. Her apron was dusted with flour, her hands busy kneading dough. She looked up as i hesitated near the door.
"You lost, girl?" the woman asked, her voice kind but firm.
I swallowed, my throat dry. I had no plan, no story. Just desperation.
"I—" i hesitated, then forced myself to meet the woman's gaze. "I need work."
The woman's sharp eyes studied me, lingering on the torn coat, the dirt on my hands, the exhaustion in her face. I braced myself for rejection.
Instead, the woman sighed. "You know how to clean?"
I blinked. "Yes."
"Good. Floors need scrubbing." The woman wiped her hands on her apron. "I pay in food. Maybe more, if you prove yourself."
My heart pounded. I hadn't expected it to be that easy. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." The woman nodded toward a bucket and a rag. "Get to work."
I grabbed the bucket, barely believing my luck. I wasn't safe yet, but i had warmth. Food. A place to stay, at least for now.
For the first time in weeks, i let out a breath that didn't feel like a battle.
Maybe, just maybe, i had a chance to start over.
I worked harder than i ever had in my life.
The woman who ran The Bluebell Café—Helen was tough but fair. She didn't ask questions about where i came from, and i didn't offer answers. As long as i worked, i had food and a safe place to sleep in the small storage room at the back of the café.
At first, i did only the lowest tasks scrubbing floors, washing dishes, hauling heavy sacks of flour. My hands were always raw, my muscles sore, but i never complained. I knew what it was like to have nothing, and i refused to lose this chance.
Days turned into weeks.
I learned how to move quickly, how to anticipate Helen's sharp orders before they were spoken. I memorized the smell of fresh bread before it was done, the rhythm of the morning rush, the exact way Helen liked her countertops wiped.
One rainy afternoon, as i was stacking clean plates, Helen called out, "Girl."I turned. "Yes?"
Helen wiped her hands on her apron, eyeing the café. "Liz is out sick. We need another server. You think you can handle it?"
My breath caught. I had never served customers before,had never been anything more than the invisible girl in the back, scrubbing and cleaning.
"I—yes. I can do it."
Helen raised an eyebrow. "We'll see."That evening, i took my first order.
My hands shook as i balanced trays, my voice soft as i spoke to customers. But i learned quickly,how to navigate the crowded café, how to read people's moods, how to smile just enough to avoid drawing suspicion.
And when Helen didn't scold me at the end of the night, i knew i had passed the test.wasn't just a runaway anymore. was a waitress. A worker. Someone with a place in the world.
I had spent months working at The Bluebell Café, and for the first time in my life, i felt a sense of stability. The café gave me food, shelter, and safety. But deep down, i knew it wasn't forever.Brightwater was still too close. Too close to Hollow Creek. Too close to him.
My uncle might have stopped looking for me. Or maybe he hadn't.i couldn't take the risk.
One evening, as i wiped down tables after closing, i hesitated before speaking. "Helen?"
The older woman glanced up from counting the day's earnings. "Hmm?"
"I think…I think I need to leave soon."
Helen didn't look surprised. "Figured you would."
I swallowed. "I just—" i exhaled. "I need to go further. Somewhere I can really start over."
Helen was silent for a long moment, then nodded toward the kitchen. "Take some bread before you go. And don't get yourself killed."i smiled. "I'll try not to."
A week later, i packed what little i had,a few coins, a change of clothes, and a small sketchbook i had picked up from a street vendor.i took another train, this time going south, past cities i didn't recognize, through towns i would never return to. I didn't stop until i reached Westmere, a coastal town filled with artists, travelers, and people who didn't ask questions.It was exactly what i needed
Westmere felt different. The salty breeze, the smell of fresh seafood, the sound of music from street performers,it was a place where no one cared where you came from, only who you were now.i found a job at a small seaside diner, waiting tables for enough money to rent a tiny room above a bookshop. It wasn't much, but it was mine And in the quiet hours before dawn, when the world was still, i painted.
At first, it was just for myself,sketching on scraps of paper, smearing cheap paint across old canvas. But one day, a customer noticed me doodling on the back of a napkin.
"You should sell those," he had said, tapping the inked-out seagull with a grin.
I had laughed at the time. But later, i thought…why not?
So i did.
Slowly, i built something of my own. I was still a waitress. Still a runaway. But now, i was also an artist.
And for the first time in my life, i felt free.