The Little Matchstick Girl

The polished black car hummed, carrying Bella through the sprawling, unfamiliar streets of Rivera City. After eleven years, the city felt alien, yet the nagging problem that had pulled her back still thrummed beneath her skin.

Her phone, a beacon of her carefully constructed public life, buzzed with notifications. The headline that had shattered her world, the one proclaiming her engagement to Blake Peterson, glared back at her. Disgust pooled in her stomach, a bitter taste that only intensified with every passing skyscraper.

She looked away, counting the whirring buildings as the piano music from the car speakers wrapped around her, pulling her into memories of a simpler time, when it was just her and her father. A sharp inhale, then the world outside the tinted windows blurred into a chaotic rush of sirens and flashing lights. The car jolted to an abrupt stop.

Her herbal tea sloshed, staining her expensive blouse. Annoyance flared, but then her eyes registered the crowd, the fear on their faces, and the house. Her house. Elm Street. A wave of sickening familiarity washed over her as she saw the grand piano on the balcony, shining despite its age.

Then she heard the whisper, a name that made her blood pound: "Tom is dead."

"What did you say?" Bella demanded, her voice a raw tremor. The world tilted on its axis. Tom. Her father. No, it couldn't be. Not him. Not like this.