Chapter 7: breakfast
Enzo’s POV
The weekend had slipped through my fingers like sand, leaving only the cold, unyielding weight of Monday behind. My alarm blared, its shrill beeping slicing through the fragile quiet of the morning. I groaned, slamming my hand against the clock to silence it. The stillness that followed was almost mocking, like the universe itself was reminding me of the long day ahead.
The floor was icy against my bare feet as I swung out of bed, sending a shiver crawling up my spine. The air in my room felt heavy, stagnant, as if it, too, resented the start of the workweek.
In the bathroom, the fluorescent light buzzed faintly overhead, casting a harsh glow over the tiled walls. I stepped into the shower, the water stinging my skin as it transitioned from icy to scalding. The sharp scent of eucalyptus body wash filled the air, mingling with the rising steam. I closed my eyes, letting the heat seep into my muscles, wishing it could dissolve the dread pooling in my chest.
After drying off, I rubbed lavender-scented lotion onto my arms, the soothing fragrance doing little to calm my restless thoughts. I dressed quickly, the stiff fabric of my uniform brushing against my skin, grounding me momentarily. Clipping on my badge, I caught my reflection in the mirror. My eyes looked dull, tired, as though they hadn’t quite caught up with the rest of me.
I glanced at the clock. Ten minutes until I had to leave. Just enough time for breakfast.
The thought perked me up slightly as I headed to the kitchen. But as I entered, I stopped short, the air thick with the sweet, inviting aroma of pancakes and honey. My stomach twisted—a mix of hunger and unease.
On the table sat a plate stacked with pancakes, the golden syrup glistening under the dim morning light. For a moment, I stared, my mind racing. I didn’t make this. I live alone. So who did?
"This is creepy," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. I approached the table slowly, the faint squeak of the floorboards beneath my feet breaking the silence. The plate was warm when I touched it, as though whoever had made this had only just left.