Chapter 2: Shattered Vows

"Why are you crying?"

His features sharpened into focus. Even in the washed-out morning light, Derek’s face was unchanged—a jawline fit for TV, blue eyes clouded with something I couldn’t name. A lock of hair fell across his brow, and for a second, I remembered all those late nights, tracing the lines of his face in the half-dark.

I could still recall the sensation of running my fingers along his brow and nose every night.

There were nights, lying together in silence, that I’d memorize every angle, wishing the distance between us was just a bad dream. I’d trace the bridge of his nose, hoping he’d turn to me—but he never did.

Back from the dead and meeting his gaze, we both fell silent.

It was like those awkward pauses at high school dances, when the music cuts out and everyone’s suddenly too aware of their own heartbeat. Something electric and strange hung between us—resentment, disbelief, longing, I couldn’t tell which.

I really had come back to life.

The cold January air tasted sharp, reminding me this wasn’t just a nightmare. My second chance was real—and terrifying.

I sniffled and walked down the steps in silence.

My boots crunched on the salt scattered across the porch, the silence stretching between us. A dog barked somewhere, a car engine rumbled across the street.

Winters in Silver Hollow were brutal.

Every year, the news warned about pipes freezing and black ice. Frost crawled up the windows, and even inside, you could see your breath some mornings. The cold seeped into your bones, making the old floorboards creak like ghosts at night.

So cold that even my heart trembled with sorrow.

I hugged myself, shivering in a way that went deeper than the wind chill. My chest ached, an ache no blanket could fix.

Derek, out of habit, took off his coat and draped it over my shoulders.

His gesture was automatic, almost thoughtless—like muscle memory from another lifetime. The coat was heavy, warm, too big for me. For a split second, it almost felt like safety.

"You’ll freeze out here, Nat. Take it."

His voice was gentle, the words rolling out like something he’d said a thousand times. I remembered him saying the same thing after late-night shifts or cold drives home from my job at the mill.

The long-lost warmth, mixed with the faint scent of lilac soap.

The smell clung to the collar—fresh and oddly feminine, nothing like the Irish Spring bars we kept by the kitchen sink. It made my stomach twist, my throat tighten.

I recognized that scent—it was Aubrey’s soap.

She always smelled like that, even back in high school, with her perfect blouses and glossy hair. Seeing him wear it now was like a slap in the face.

I remembered how, in my previous life, when I questioned him, Derek’s gentle demeanor turned icy, his eyes simmering with barely controlled anger.

He’d gone from tender to distant in a heartbeat. The way his jaw set, his voice dropping to that cold, controlled register—it scared me more than if he’d yelled.

"Natalie, you’ve been locked up for three days. Are you still not calm?"

His tone back then was so clinical, so dismissive—like my pain was a problem to be solved. I can hear it even now, echoing under my skin.

"Can you stop stirring the pot?"

Those words stung worse than any argument. As if my hurt was just me making trouble, as if I was the only one to blame.

At that time, I was full of grievances.

They twisted in my gut, sour and hot. I wanted so badly for him to take my side, just once, to see what Aubrey was really doing.

Faced with Aubrey’s provocations, Derek turned a blind eye. I could only struggle alone, isolated and helpless, and in the end, I became the town punchline, the story they whispered over pie at the diner.

Derek, in this life, go ahead and love your old flame openly. I won’t be part of it anymore.

This time, I promised myself, I’d step aside. Let them have each other—I’d find a way to survive without either of them.

Desperately holding back tears, I stiffly shrugged off the coat, refusing to mention the scent.

The gesture was deliberate. My jaw tightened, hands clenched inside my sleeves, and for a heartbeat, a memory flashed: his coat used to mean safety. Now, it was just another wall. I hugged myself tighter, shivering not from the cold but from everything I refused to say.

"You wear it. I’m not cold."

My voice was flat, brittle. I didn’t look at him, afraid that if I did, the tears would spill over.

Derek paused mid-step, only coming back to himself after a long while.

He hesitated, uncertain for the first time, fingers tightening around the coat. I could almost hear the gears turning in his head—too late, Derek. Too late.