1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

Get ready for a true story—believe me, I'm not one to spin tales. This is the story of how I met my end.

Let's go back to the beginning.

Day One

I was always running late. No matter how hard I tried to stick to a routine, something always went wrong. This particular day was no exception. The subway stalled for twelve agonizing minutes, leaving me staring at the grimy tiles of the station walls as the train sat motionless in the tunnel. When we finally emerged into the daylight, chaos took hold. My scarf, a deep burgundy wool knit, got caught in the escalator's teeth, yanking me off balance and sending me sprawling onto the cold, unforgiving metal steps.

By the time I freed myself, my palms were scraped, and my nerves were frayed. To top it off, no taxis would stop for me. The cabs, yellow blurs against the snow-dusted streets, zoomed by as if I were invisible. With no other option, I had to sprint, my breath puffing out in desperate clouds as I navigated through the slush-covered sidewalks.

I thought becoming an adult would break this habit of constant tardiness, but no such luck. My hope for a punctual life was shattered the moment I skidded to a halt outside the doctor's office. The brick fa?ade, once a comforting sight, now seemed to mock me. Snowflakes, delicate and pristine, began to fall, sticking to my hair and eyelashes, melting into icy droplets on my flushed cheeks.

Breathless, I pushed open the heavy glass door, only to be greeted by the cool, indifferent voice of the receptionist. "I'm sorry, we gave away your spot. You'll need to reschedule."

The disappointment hit me like a punch to the gut. I stared at the receptionist for a moment, unable to believe that all my frantic effort had been for nothing. The waiting room, with its sterile white walls and uncomfortable plastic chairs, felt like the last place on earth I wanted to be. The ticking clock on the wall only added to my frustration.

With a sigh, I turned and walked back out into the snow, the door swinging shut behind me with a soft click. My journey into the unpredictable fate that awaited me had only just begun.

No longer in a rush, I decided to wander instead. The snow, despite my usual aversion to the cold, had a strange way of calming me. I watched as the city moved around me—people hurried by, their faces hidden behind scarves and hoods, while cars sloshed through the slush on the streets. The usual clamor of the city seemed muffled by the thick blanket of snow that was beginning to coat everything.

I turned onto 2nd Avenue, my footsteps leaving uneven prints behind me. The convenience store's neon sign flickered in the early evening light, casting a pale glow on the sidewalk. I ducked inside, the warm air and the smell of freshly brewed coffee greeting me like an old friend. After grabbing two sandwiches and two bottles of water, I made my way back outside and headed toward the Pulitzer Fountain, my usual meeting spot with Shelia .

Shelia was already at the fountain when I arrived, huddled on the stone bench with her thin, weathered coat wrapped tightly around her frail body. She was an older woman, with a slight hunch that made her seem even smaller than she was. Her hair, a tangled mess of tattered gray strands, framed a face that had seen far too much hardship. But it was her eyes that always caught me—the mismatched pair of gray despair and green emerald that seemed to hold a thousand untold stories.

As I approached, I noticed the way people glanced at her, their eyes filled with a mix of pity and judgment. They hurried by, eager to put distance between themselves and the reminder of life's cruelties. But Shelia never let it bother her. She had a resilience that I admired, even envied.

"Hey, Shelia," I called out, giving her a warm smile as I handed her one of the sandwiches. "It's turkey today. I know it's your favorite."

She looked up, her eyes softening as she accepted the food with trembling hands. "Thank you, love. You're too kind," she murmured, her voice raspy but sincere.

We sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the soft crunch of snow underfoot as people passed by. The Pulitzer Fountain, usually a lively spot during the day, was now quiet, the water frozen in mid-flow, creating an icy sculpture that glistened in the evening light. The park surrounding it was dusted with snow, the trees bare and the benches lined with a thin layer of white. It felt peaceful, almost serene, despite the cold biting at my cheeks.

Shelia took a bite of her sandwich and then, almost unexpectedly, she spoke. "I've been thinking about my son lately," she said, her voice breaking the stillness. "He was such a cheeky little boy, always up to some mischief. But he had a good heart. Always helped anyone who needed it."

I turned to her, surprised by the openness. Shelia rarely talked about her past. "Where is he now?" I asked gently.

She shook her head, her gray eyes clouding with sorrow. "I don't know. I lost touch with him some time ago. I'm sure he thinks I abandoned him, that I didn't care." Her voice trembled, and for a moment, I thought she might cry, but she quickly regained her composure. "But I think of him every day. I just hope he's out there somewhere, safe."

"I'm sure he knows you didn't abandon him, Shelia. Kids have a way of understanding more than we give them credit for," I said, trying to offer some comfort .

She smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I like to think so. But it's hard, you know, not knowing."

I nodded, feeling a deep connection to her words. "I get it. I grew up in an orphanage. Never knew if I had any family out there. You learn to find family in other places, with other people."

Shelia looked at me then, really looked at me, as if seeing me for the first time. "You've got a good heart, too," she said softly. "Just like my boy."

The wind picked up, and I noticed Shelia shivering despite her layers. Without thinking, I unwound the red scarf from around my neck and draped it over her shoulders. "Here, take this," I said, tucking it in to keep her warm.

Shelia's eyes widened, and she reached up to touch the soft fabric. "Oh, no, I couldn't," she protested weakly, but I shook my head.

"Please, I insist. I've got more scarves at home," I lied, not wanting her to refuse.

Shelia hesitated for a moment, then gave me a small, grateful smile. "You're an angel, you know that?" she said, her voice thick with emotion. "Everyone deserves a second chance, and I think yours is coming. "

She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small, weathered box. "I want you to have this," she said, opening it to reveal an old necklace—a tear-drop-shaped amethyst stone encased in a unique metal swirl of vines and leaves. The metal was tarnished with age, but the stone glowed with an inner light, as if holding a secret power.

"Shelia, I can't take this," I began to protest, but she shook her head firmly.

"No, you must," she insisted, pressing the box into my hands. "This necklace has been in my family for generations. It's protected us, helped us when we needed it most. And now, it's your turn. Keep it with you, always. It'll help you when you're lost, and protect you when you're scared."

Her words, spoken with such conviction, sent a shiver down my spine. I didn't know if I believed in the power of an old necklace, but the sincerity in Shelia's eyes made me clutch it tightly.

"Thank you, Shelia," I whispered, touched by her gesture. "I'll take good care of it."

Grateful yet bewildered, I thanked Shelia once more and carefully tucked the necklace into my coat pocket. As I turned to leave, the cold wind nipped at my face, reminding me of the snow that had now started to fall more heavily. The walk through Central Park was my usual shortcut, a serene path that offered a brief escape from the city's relentless pace. Though people often warned against traveling alone through the park, I always felt a strange sense of safety during the day. The towering trees, now bare, lined the paths like silent guardians, their branches dusted with snow.

The park was quieter than usual, the fresh layer of snow muffling the sounds of the city. I could see the West Apartments in the distance, their brick fa?ade partially obscured by the falling snowflakes. The building was a grand old structure, with an air of faded elegance, situated just off Central Park West. Despite its grandeur, it wasn't my destination. My humble abode was located behind a small, eccentric store that sold all manner of mysterious merchandise. The store's window display featured everything from crystal balls to tarot cards, drawing in curious tourists and the occasional serious buyer.

I pushed open the creaky door to my apartment, the familiar scent of old wood and incense greeting me. My small studio was quirky, to say the least, but it was my sanctuary. The space was a cozy mix of mismatched furniture and eclectic decorations—a tattered armchair I had found on the street, shelves filled with books, and a small table cluttered with candles and odd trinkets I had collected over the years. Despite the peeling paint on the walls and the draft that always seemed to seep through the windows, it was home.

After shedding my jacket and shoes, I made my way to the small desk that served as my workstation. The worn wooden surface was covered in notebooks, pens, and scattered papers—evidence of the fantasy adventure story I had been writing and posting online. I spent the next thirty minutes typing away on my laptop, completely absorbed in the world I was creating. In my story, magic was real, and adventure awaited around every corner—an escape from the reality where busking and a part-time job barely covered my expenses. I dreamed of a publisher discovering my work and offering me a chance at a better life, but for now, reality kept me grounded.

With a sigh, I saved my progress and closed the laptop. The clock on the wall reminded me that it was time to get ready for my shift at the convenience store. I headed to the small bathroom, the cracked tiles underfoot feeling cold even through my socks. After a quick shower, I stood in front of the mirror, examining my bright blonde hair. It had been a while since I'd touched up the roots, and the dark strands were beginning to show through. With a shrug, I tied it back into a short ponytail, making a mental note to buy hair dye when I could afford it.

I arrived at the convenience store just in time for my shift, the bell above the door jingling as I stepped inside. The fluorescent lights hummed softly, casting a harsh glow on the rows of snacks, drinks, and everyday essentials. My manager, a middle-aged man with a perpetually grumpy expression, glanced up from the register as I clocked in.

"Right on time, as usual," he said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "You trying to make the rest of us look bad?"

I rolled my eyes but smiled. "Just trying to stay out of trouble, Mark," I replied, slipping on my apron.

"Good luck with that," he muttered, but I caught the slight upturn of his lips. It was the closest thing to a compliment I was likely to get from him.

The evening passed in a blur of routine tasks—stocking shelves, ringing up customers, and sweeping the floor. The usual crowd of regulars drifted in and out, each one offering a brief moment of interaction before disappearing back into the night. As I bagged groceries for an elderly woman, I couldn't help but think about the necklace in my pocket, its weight a constant reminder of Shelia's mysterious gift.

By the time my shift ended, the snow had stopped falling, leaving the city wrapped in a soft, white blanket. I stepped outside, pulling my coat tighter around me, and began the walk back home, the quiet streets of the city feeling almost magical in the stillness.

Day Two

Technically, the end of my shift marked the next day, as it was a little past midnight when I finally left the convenience store. Exhaustion weighed heavily on my shoulders, and the thought of taking a lengthy detour home seemed unbearable. Against my better judgment, I opted for the shortcut through Central Park, the familiar path now cloaked in an unsettling darkness.

Eleven minutes—a mere blip in time—became the catalyst for a colossal mistake.

I quickened my pace, the crunch of snow beneath my boots the only sound accompanying me. The park's dimly lit paths twisted and turned, the trees casting eerie shadows that danced in the corner of my vision. The stillness of the night was unnerving, a stark contrast to the usual hum of the city. My breath fogged in the cold air, each exhale a reminder of the growing unease gnawing at my insides.

Then, out of nowhere, a figure lurched from the bushes. My heart slammed against my ribs as a rough hand seized my shoulder bag, yanking me off balance. The stranger's face was obscured by a hood, but the menace in his voice was unmistakable. "Let go," he hissed, his grip tightening like a vise.

Instinctively, I tried to scream, but the sound caught in my throat, strangled by fear. His other hand emerged from his coat, and the metallic gleam of a gun sent a jolt of terror through me. "Shut up," he snarled, pressing the barrel against my side to drive the point home.

Panic surged, wild and uncontrollable. I wasn't the tough New Yorker who could stare down danger—I was just a girl, alone in the dark, out of her depth. My hands trembled, not because I was holding onto the bag, but because it was tangled in my coat, my hood making everything worse. I could feel the strap digging into my shoulder, the pressure building with each passing second.

The stranger grew more agitated, his movements jerky and desperate. "I said, let go!" he barked, raising the gun to my face, his eyes wild with impatience.

Time seemed to slow, the world narrowing to the cold steel inches from my skin. My pulse thundered in my ears, drowning out all rational thought. The gun was all I could see, its dark barrel a promise of death.

And then, in an instant, everything shattered.

The deafening crack of a gunshot split the night, echoing through the empty park. The force of the sound hit me like a physical blow, my body recoiling as if struck.