A Version Of Peace

Elena Rivers

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Mornings started with jasmine tea.

Elena had replaced her coffee addiction with something gentler. The bitterness of caffeine reminded her too much of sharp words and colder touches. Tea, she decided, tasted like healing.

She painted now—nothing extravagant. Just small pieces on textured paper: bleeding skies, faceless women, wilted flowers. The art wasn't meant for anyone but herself. Still, Christopher insisted on framing two and hanging them in his home office.

"I see color in them," he'd said.

She didn't correct him. She still only painted in black, white, and grey.

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The village was quiet.

Locals nodded at her with familiarity but didn't pry. She liked that. She walked to the bookstore twice a week. Read too many novels. Took walks alone, even in the rain.

She was building a rhythm.

Breathing better.

Smiling more often.

Sometimes, Christopher stayed the night—but always on the couch. He never pushed, never asked why she jolted awake if she heard footsteps at night. He never pried into her nightmares or asked about the man whose name she refused to say.

And she loved him for that.

Not in the way he might have wanted.

But in the safest way she could manage.

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Still, sometimes—when the wind blew in just right—she'd feel it again.

That invisible pressure.

Like the world was watching her through one-way glass.

Like eyes were crawling up the back of her neck.

Once, she was sure she heard footsteps in the hallway after midnight. Another time, her locked door was found ajar when she woke.

But she told no one.

She couldn't.

If she spoke it aloud, it might become real.

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And she had come too far, bled too much, to let him haunt her now.

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