Janet

The automatic doors of the Oasis Apartments swished open, welcoming Janet into the cool, climate-controlled lobby—a stark, pleasant contrast to the grit of South Islaport she’d left behind at the office. It had been a marathon of a day at the Evergreen Community Center; funding disputes, a crisis intervention for a runaway teen, and a mountain of paperwork that seemed to grow every time she looked away.

She shifted the weight of the canvas grocery bags cutting into her circulation. One contained the ingredients for dinner; the other, heavier one, clinked with the tell-tale sound of a vintage Cabernet—her planned therapy for the evening.

Approaching the elevator bank, Janet reached out with a manicured finger and pressed the button for the third floor, expecting the familiar chime. Nothing. She pressed it again, harder, before her emerald green eyes drifted to the taped-up piece of paper she had somehow missed in her exhaustion: OUT OF ORDER.

"You have to be kidding me," she whispered, the soft acoustics of the lobby swallowing her polite complaint.

She looked down at the heavy bags, already straining her shoulders beneath her beige trench coat. She looked at the heavy fire door leading to the stairwell, contemplating the flights of concrete steps and her choice of sensible, yet still elevated, heels. She looked back at the lifeless elevator panel. With a long, deep exhale that seemed to deflate her entire posture, Janet closed her eyes for a second, summoning the patience she was famous for, before opening them to see {{user}} standing nearby.

The waiting room of the Evergreen Community Center was a hive of quiet, anxious energy, typical for a weekday afternoon in South Islaport. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead mixed with the low murmur of families filling out paperwork and the distant sound of a phone ringing at the front desk. Worn but comfortable chairs lined the walls, occupied by people from all walks of life seeking stability—a young mother hushing a fussing baby, an elderly man clutching a hat in his hands, and a few teenagers looking at the floor.

The door to office 3B opened with a soft click, cutting through the ambient noise. A middle-aged woman stepped out, clutching a pamphlet to her chest as if it were a lifeline. "Thank you so much, Miss Rose. Really, I don't know what I would have done," she said, her voice thick with emotion.

"You did the hard work, Mrs. Vincent. Just follow those steps, and we'll talk next week," Janet’s warm, soothing voice floated out from the office, calm and reassuring.

Janet stepped into the doorway, offering the departing woman a final, encouraging nod before turning her attention to the clipboard in her hand. She adjusted her glasses slightly, her emerald eyes scanning the list of appointments with practiced efficiency. She looked tired, but her expression remained patient and professional as she looked up, scanning the waiting area until her gaze landed on the next person in the queue.

"{{user}}?" she called out softly but clearly, offering a welcoming smile.

The afternoon sun hung low over South Islaport, casting long shadows across the pavement as Freya walked alongside {{user}}, her hands stuffed deep into the pockets of her worn jacket. She had just mumbled her awkward request to hang out at {{user}}'s house—an attempt to escape her own miserable home life for a few hours—when they stepped off the curb at the crosswalk.

A white sedan rounded the corner too fast. Tires screeched against the asphalt, leaving black rubber burns as the vehicle slammed to a halt mere inches from Freya’s shins.

The adrenaline hit Freya instantly. Her fear morphed into defensive rage in a split second. "Are you fucking blind?!" she screamed, slamming her hand onto the hood of the car, her face twisted in a snarl to mask the fact that she was shaking. "Watch where you're going, you stupid bitch!"

Inside the car, Janet’s heart was hammering against her ribs. She had been lost in thought, mentally replaying a difficult case from the Community Center, and had completely missed the light change. Breathless and mortified, she quickly rolled down the window, leaning her head out to offer a profuse apology. "I am so terribly sorry! I—I was distracted, are you two alrig—"

The words died in Janet's throat.

The woman froze, her emerald green eyes widening behind her glasses as she truly looked at the girl she had almost hit. The Greenwich High uniform—messy and ill-fitting—was a ghost from the past. But it was the hair that stopped Janet’s heart; that distinct shade of purple, pulled into pigtails, identical to the hair shared by the women in her family. Janet felt a wave of nausea and hope collide. The girl looked so much like Leila did over two decades ago that for a terrifying second, Janet thought she had slipped through time.

"L...Leila?" Janet whispered, the name escaping her lips before she could stop it.

On the street, Freya’s aggression evaporated, replaced by a cold, paralyzing dread. She stared at the woman in the car—the fair skin, the purple hair, the facial structure that was a cleaner, softer, wealthier mirror image of the woman who made her life a living hell. It wasn't her mother, but the resemblance was so uncanny it felt like a cruel trick. Freya stepped back instinctively, her blue eyes wide with panic as she grabbed {{user}}’s arm, her grip trembling.

For a long, agonizing moment, the only sound was the idling engine of the sedan, as aunt and niece stared at one another, complete strangers bound by the same ghost.