The alarm buzzed sharply at 5:30 a.m., but Autumn was already awake, staring at the ceiling like she was counting invisible cracks. Her apartment was silent except for the low hum of the city outside. She sat up, heart already racing, because the day ahead was mapped out in numbers, deadlines, and expectations, hers, her family’s, the ones she never asked for.

Coffee was the first line of defense. She moved through her small kitchen like clockwork, measuring water, grinding beans. Precision was comforting, a safe space. Her job as an accountant demanded it, but so did her life, everything calculated, nothing left to chance.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Dad. “Any update on the promotion? Don’t forget the Wilson account review.” No “good morning,” no “hope you slept well.” Just business.

She typed back carefully, “Preparing the report. Will send by noon.” And hit send before the knot in her stomach could grow.

At breakfast, her mother smiled, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. Her father cleared his throat, eyes scanning the morning paper but not really reading it.

“So, Autumn, heard your work got some attention again,” he said, voice clipped. “Don’t get distracted. You’re the one who must make sure this family looks good.”

Autumn swallowed a bitter sip of tea. “I’m doing my best.”

“Good,” he said, but the word felt like a ledger entry, cold and impersonal.

Her mother chimed in softly, “We’re proud of you, dear.” But Autumn caught the way her eyes flicked to her father, waiting for his approval.

She wanted to say, I’m more than numbers and reports, but instead, she nodded, keeping her gaze on her plate.

Later, at the office, the weight of expectations pressed down on her chest. Her ex, Alain, was just a text away, but she didn’t want to open that door today.

Because love with him was never simple. It was a math problem she couldn’t solve, a balance sheet that always ended in loss.

“You’re too intense,” his words echoed, slicing sharper than any audit.

Autumn closed her eyes and pictured rain tapping on her window, honest, unafraid to be messy. It was safer than pretending her heart wasn’t breaking in silence.

And so, she kept her life neat, her feelings locked tight, and her walls higher than anyone could climb.

…………

The phone screen glowed in the dim morning light, Alain’s name, flashing insistently. Can we talk?

Autumn’s fingers hovered, trembling. She wanted to scream No, to remove it and lock away the memories like a secret too painful to revisit.

But instead, she stared down at the tiny screen and let the silence answer for her.

Because loving Alain had been a beautiful lie.

She remembered the early days with sharp clarity, his easy laugh, the way he’d brush strands of hair from her face like he worshipped every inch of her skin. The nights when the world felt small and safe, wrapped in his arms.

But the light faded fast.

Arguments came like storms she didn’t see coming. His words cut sharper than any knife. “You’re too intense.” “I can’t manage your mood swings.” “Maybe I made a mistake.”

Those words weren’t just cruel, they echoed the fears she’d buried since childhood, the voice of a father who only loved her when she was flawless.

And then came the betrayal.

Discovering he was with someone else wasn’t just heartbreak. It was confirmation: she wasn’t enough.

The ache wrapped tight around her chest like a nose.

She curled herself, fingers clutching the thin sheet like it might keep the pain at bay.

I’m too much.

I’m not lovable.

I’ll always be alone.

She refused to say it aloud.

Instead, she breathed in the quiet, letting the ghost of their love dissolve into the chilly morning air.

And promised herself she’d never trust like that again.

The scent of fresh-cut oak and pine hung thickly in the air of the workshop. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, casting golden streaks across scattered tools and half-finished tables.

Sam Torres wiped sweat from his brow with a rough cloth, then ran his fingers over a piece of walnut, feeling every ridge and knot like it told a story only he could hear.

“Careful with that one, Miguel,” he called softly to a young apprentice sanding a chair leg.

Miguel looked up, surprised but pleased to be noticed. “Yes, Sam.”

Sam smiled, a small, genuine curve that softened his usually serious face. This was his sanctuary, where business met craftsmanship, and noise of the outside world faded into the background.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it. Letters from his mother, carefully tucked away in a wooden box beneath his bed, were far more important than any call.

His mother had been the heart of this company, teaching him to love the imperfect, the process, and the people behind every creation.

At the office, the polished glass towers and sleek boardroom didn’t reflect the same warmth as the workshop. Investors in suits pushed for efficiency, scale, automation things that made Sam’s jaw clench.

“Samuel,” his business manager said gently, “we understand your passion, but this company needs to grow. Mass production is the future.”

Sam shook his head. “It’s not just about growth. It’s about legacy. About honoring the hands that build, the stories the wood carries.”

Later, he drove out to the cemetery on the edge of town. The freezing wind tugged at his collar as he knelt with a granite headstone.

“Dad,” he whispered, voice thick, “I’m trying. Trying to keep this alive, for you, for Mom.”

He closed his eyes and felt the ache, a quiet companion he carried since childhood.

………………….

The bar was noisy, filled with laughter and clinking glasses. Autumn sat in the corner, nursing a glass of red wine, watching her friends chatter about dates, weekend plans, and new flings.

“You’ve got to put yourself out there, Autumn,” Jenna said, swirling her drink. “You can’t keep hiding in your work forever.”

Autumn forced a smile. “It’s not hiding.”

“Then what is it?” Maya asked, leaning in. “I mean, you never bring anyone home. We hardly see you on weekends anymore.”

She looked away, the weight settling heavy in her chest. “It’s complicated.”

Jenna tilted her head, concern softening her eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “Not tonight.”

Later, walking home beneath streetlights that blurred in the drizzle, Autumn felt the cold press against her skin, but inside, it was a different kind of chill.

She pulled her coat tighter and thought about Alain. About how she had loved him so fiercely, only to have that love shattered by his lies.

The memory of his voice haunted her. “You’re too intense, Autumn. I can’t oversee it.”

Her steps quickened, her breath catching. The pain of his absence felt like a shadow trailing her, never quite leaving.

At her apartment, she pulled out her journal and flipped to a blank page. Her pen hovered, then scratched out a few tentative lines.

“Maybe I’m broken. Maybe I’m too much.”

She erased the words. No, she wasn’t broken. Not yet.

Tears blurred her vision as the rain pattered softly against the window. The loneliness inside her was vast, but she held it close,

The sleek boardroom gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights. Investors sat around a polished oak table, papers and tablets in hand. Sam sat at the head, his fingers steepled, jaw tight.

“Samuel,” one investor began, voice smooth but firm, “automation will increase profits and market share. It’s the logical step.”

Sam looked around the room, meeting each other’s expectant gaze. “I respect that,” he said slowly, “but Torres & Sons isn’t just about profit. It’s about craft, legacy, and people. You can’t automate soul.”

A murmur rippled through the room. The business manager leaned in, whispering, “We can’t afford to fall behind.”

Sam clenched his fists beneath the table. “I’ll not sacrifice the artisanship my family built for quick gains.”

After the meeting, he stepped out into the cool evening, the city’s neon glows a blur. He drove to the cemetery on the outskirts, the place where grief and hope collided.

Standing before his father’s grave, he spoke softly, “Dad, I’m trying to honor you and Mom. Sometimes it feels like I’m carrying too much, but I won’t let go.”

His voice cracked, the years of silent sorrow pressing heavily on his chest.

A breeze whispered through the trees, as if answering his unspoken fears.

...****************...

The othered side of thee city

🌆

The auditorium buzzed softly as Autumn stepped onto the stage, the bright lights blinding at first. Applause rippled through the crowd, but inside, her heart thudded unevenly.

She scanned the faces of colleagues, clients, her parents in the front row, smiling but distant. Her mother’s lips pressed into a thin line, and her father sat upright, eyes sharp and expectant.

The award felt heavy in her hands, a trophy of achievement that hadn’t filled the hollow inside.

After the ceremony, her parents approached, faces polite but reserved.

“Well done, Autumn,” her father said, voice steady. “You’ve made us proud.”

Her mother added softly, “You’re so responsible. Such a bright future.”

She wanted to tell them that their pride felt conditional earned only by accomplishments, not by whom she was beneath perfection.

But the words caught in her throat.

Later, alone in her apartment, she stared at the award on her dresser. The room was quiet, except for the hum of the city beyond the window.

She sank onto the bed, the weight of loneliness pressing down like a physical force.

No hugs. No “I love you just because.”

Only achievements. Only expectations.

She reached for her journal and wrote slowly, “What if I’m just a collection of good grades and perfect numbers? What if no one loves the girl behind the success?”

The tears came quietly, like rain slipping through cracks in the windowpane.

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ...

...Next morning ...

The morning sun poured through the towering glass facade of Torres & Sons headquarters, casting long golden beams across the polished marble floors. Autumn adjusted the strap of her leather bag as she stepped inside, the faint scent of varnished wood and fresh paint welcoming her.

Her heartbeat steadily but with a flutter of nerves. This was her first day overseeing the complicated tax restructuring for one of the city’s most prestigious companies, and the weight of the responsibility pressed gently against her shoulders.

The lobby bustled with executives in tailored suits and interns clutching tablets, but Autumn’s eyes searched for one figure, Sam Torres.

He appeared suddenly, his sleeves casually rolled up, dusted with sawdust from his morning workshop. His dark eyes met hers, calm yet piercing, and a flicker of something unreadable passed between them.

“Good morning, Naomi,” he said, voice low but warm.

She blinked, surprised by the ease in his tone. “Good morning, Mr. Torres.”

“Please, call me Sam,” he said with a faint smile.

Her cheeks warmed. “Of course.”

The first meeting was intense. Numbers and spreadsheets filled the large oak conference table, but beneath the figures were stories of legacy and family pride Sam guarded fiercely.

Autumn’s questions were sharp and precise. “Can you explain this discrepancy in last quarter’s materials cost?”

Sam leaned forward, fingers interlacing. “That’s from a handcrafted batch. Some costs aren’t perfectly tracked because of the artisanal process.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That could cause issues with compliance.”

“We manage it carefully,” Sam replied, eyes steady. “Because quality isn’t always a clean ledger.”

Their dialogue danced between confrontation and curiosity, two worlds clashing but slowly finding rhythm.

By the end of the day, Autumn left the building with a mixture of exhaustion and intrigue. The city hummed around her, lights flickering on as dusk settled, but in her mind, Sam Torres lingered a mystery wrapped in sawdust and sharp eyes.