The night that pulled her

The town was quiet after sunset, hushed beneath a pale silver moon and the distant hum of gas lamps flickering along the streets. Inside her room, Mary had tried to sleep—but her mind danced restlessly.

Then she heard it.

A voice. Low, smooth, familiar.

Drifting faintly through her open window from somewhere down the hill. A voice with color. A voice she had memorized without meaning to.

Isabelle.

Mary's breath caught. She pressed her ear closer, listening. Was it her imagination?

No—there it was again. A soft, jazzy tune beneath that sultry voice, like laughter dipped in smoke.

Without another thought, Mary slipped out of bed. She grabbed a coat, wrapped her scarf, and tiptoed down the back staircase. The house was silent, except for the grandfather clock ticking in the main hall.

They won't know. Just for a moment.

She stepped out into the night, the air cool against her cheeks as she followed the voice through the cobbled lanes of Whitmore Town.

---

It led her far from the manors and marble columns.

Down streets where lamplight turned golden and warm and the air smelled like cigarette smoke and old stories. At the edge of town, she saw it:

The Velvet Tailor.

A low-slung brick building with glowing red curtains in the windows and men in tailored coats slipping in and out, laughter spilling through the door like wine.

She stood in the shadows across the street, her breath fogging.

Isabelle's voice drifted through the open windows. She was singing now. The tune curled around Mary's heart like silk.

What is this place?

Time passed—maybe an hour, maybe three. She didn't care.

Mary just stood there, hidden, her fingers clutched together under her coat. The music inside faded and shifted. Eventually, the crowd thinned. The door creaked open again.

And Isabelle stepped out.

Wearing a black coat over a shimmering red dress, her heels clicking softly on the stone. She paused under the golden glow of the hanging lantern, lighting a cigarette.

Then her eyes flicked up.

Right across the street.

Straight at Mary.

Mary froze.

Their eyes met—and for a moment, neither moved.

Then Isabelle tilted her head and smiled. "You follow me often, sweetheart, or is this a special occasion?"

Mary stepped out of the shadows, flustered. "I—I wasn't following. I just… heard your voice."

Isabelle laughed softly. "Well, I do tend to travel with it. Comes in handy."

Mary's cheeks flushed. "I shouldn't be here."

"No," Isabelle said, taking a drag from her cigarette. "You definitely shouldn't."

She exhaled, watching the smoke swirl. "And yet, here you are."

"I wanted to see you," Mary admitted, barely louder than the breeze.

That stopped Isabelle cold for a moment. Her playful expression softened.

"You waited here. For hours." Her voice gentled. "Why?"

"I don't know," Mary whispered. "You make me feel… like I'm allowed to be something I'm not sure I can be."

Isabelle stepped closer, her shoes echoing softly. She stopped just a foot away.

"I don't think you're trying to be something else," she said. "I think you're trying to stop hiding who you already are."

Mary's breath hitched.

"I'm engaged," she said.

"I know."

"I can't…"

"You came anyway."

They stood there in the golden night, the city breathing around them, a world just their own tucked between silence and moonlight.

"You're not scared?" Mary asked, almost in awe.

Isabelle smiled sadly. "Always. But I'd rather be scared for something that feels real… than safe in a life that doesn't belong to me."

Mary looked down at her hands. They were trembling. She wasn't sure if it was the cold—or the truth of it all.

"Come," Isabelle said gently, reaching out. "Let's walk. I'll keep your secrets if you keep mine."

Mary hesitated. Then nodded. She took the offered hand.

And together, under the silent stars, they walked into the night—two shadows trailing behind, and something much bigger blooming quietly in the dark.