When She Finally Leaves Dailymotion

Elena's POV

The plane wheels kissed the tarmac with a heavy sigh. I blinked slowly, watching as the city skyline slipped into view through the oval window. Manhattan. Loud. Busy. Unforgiving. I used to know this place like the back of my hand. Now, it felt like a stranger.

"Elvis, honey, wake up. We're here."

My son stirred beside me, his tiny fingers twitching before he yawned, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. He looked up at me, eyes still heavy with sleep, then gave me a sleepy smile.

"We in New York?" he mumbled.

"Yeah," I whispered, brushing his curls from his forehead. "We're home."

Home. The word tasted strange on my tongue. It didn't feel like it used to. There was a time when I thought I'd never come back. But here I was, five years older, maybe wiser, with a changed name and definitely heavier with secrets.

We walked off the plane hand in hand, his little suitcase bumping behind him. I carried my own, smaller than you'd expect for someone who'd been gone so long. But I'd learned to travel light, to shed pieces of myself in every city I passed through.

As we entered the terminal, I spotted her. Enid. My oldest friend. She stood by a railing, waving like she was trying to catch the attention of the entire airport. Her hair was dyed copper now, short and choppy, her outfit was bold and bright in a way only she could pull off.

"Elena!" she shouted, arms already wide as she ran toward me.

I smiled for the first time in hours. A real one. She threw herself into my arms before pulling back to look at Elvis.

"And this must be the famous Elvis," she said, crouching down. "Hi there, buddy."

Elvis blinked up at her. "Do you have candy?"

"Only the best," she said, grinning. "Your mom and I go way back. So that means we're besties too, right?"

He nodded solemnly. "Okay. But I don't like the green ones."

"Duly noted."

She handed him a lollipop from her oversized tote, then stood up and looked at me with softer eyes.

"You look tired," she said.

"I am."

"Come on. Let's get out of here."

Enid's apartment was still on the Upper West Side. Familiar creaky floors. A warm smell of cinnamon and coffee. Too many plants and not enough space. It was exactly how I remembered, down to the mismatched coffee mugs and framed photos of people I hadn't seen in years.

She helped me get Elvis settled into the guest room, tucked him in with an extra blanket, then returned to the kitchen where I sat at the counter, turning a mug between my palms.

"You sure you're okay?" she asked gently.

I nodded, even though I wasn't. "Just... tired."

"You said that already."

"Then I guess it's true."

She leaned against the counter. "So. This business deal. That's why you're here?"

I nodded again.

She didn't ask more. She knew better than to push. We'd been through too many nights of wine and heartbreak for that. But I could feel the question sitting in the room between us, unspoken but alive.

And Elvis. He hadn't asked yet-not really. He was only four. But one day he would.

"Did he ever write?" Enid asked after a long silence.

I didn't answer right away. I looked down at the steam curling from the mug.

"No."

"Did you tell him?"

"No."

Another beat passed.