Brighton smelled different from anywhere I'd ever been — salt and wind, the distant scent of seaweed, and the faint sweetness of coffee drifting from the small cafés that lined the narrow streets.
The city was alive with movement.
People laughed, cars rolled by, music echoed from open windows.
And in the middle of it all, Lily walked beside me, her scarf fluttering in the breeze.
Her eyes were full of wonder.
Mine were full of disbelief.
I had been alive for centuries, yet somehow this was the first time the world truly felt new.
---
We moved into a small apartment near the university. It was warm and cluttered, full of sunlight and the constant hum of life outside.
Lily had her own room, walls covered with photos and notes. I took the small guest room — simple, quiet, enough for me.
"I'll be in class most of the day," Lily said, setting down a box. "But don't worry — I'll come back for dinner. And maybe you can explore the city when you want to!"
I smiled faintly, shaking my head. "I think I'll stay here for now. Big cities and I… don't always get along."
She laughed. "Fair enough. Just don't bake too many cookies while I'm gone, okay?"
"I'll try," I said — though I knew I'd fail that promise.
---
The days that followed were gentle.
While Lily went to her lectures, I filled the apartment with small things that made it feel alive — folded laundry, clean dishes, soft music humming from the radio.
I spent my afternoons reading, sometimes looking out the window at the people below — a mother pushing a stroller, a boy walking his dog, two friends sharing a coffee. Every moment reminded me that the world kept turning, and somehow, I had found a place within it.
At night, when Lily returned, she would tell me stories about her classes, about her friends, about professors who spoke too fast or assignments that kept her up late.
And I would listen, quietly proud, quietly grateful.
---
One evening, she came home earlier than usual, her face glowing.
"Clara," she said breathlessly, "my friend Amelia is coming over tomorrow! I told her all about you — she really wants to meet you."
I hesitated for a moment. "You told her about me?"
"Of course! I said you're my best friend, the one who raised me practically. Don't worry — she doesn't know anything… strange."
I smiled softly, relieved. "Then I'd be happy to meet her."
---
The next day, Amelia arrived — bright, lively, full of questions.
"So you're Clara!" she said with a grin. "Lily talks about you all the time. She said you're like the calmest person she knows."
I laughed quietly. "She gives me too much credit."
Amelia studied me for a second longer than felt normal, as if trying to figure out what it was that made me… different.
Then she smiled again. "Well, I can see why she loves you so much."
The conversation flowed easily after that.
We cooked together — well, I cooked, and they watched — and by evening, the little apartment was full of laughter and the smell of fresh bread.
For a few fleeting hours, I forgot about the centuries behind me.
Forgot the silence of the sea, the glass of the museum, the darkness of the past.
I was simply Clara — someone's friend, someone's comfort, someone's home.
---
Later, after Amelia had gone and the city lights shimmered through the window, Lily sat beside me on the couch.
"You seem happy here," she said softly.
I nodded. "I am."
"It's strange," she murmured. "Sometimes I feel like you've always been with me — like you've been here longer than anyone else in the world."
I looked at her, my throat tightening.
Maybe, in some way, she was right.
"I'll always be here, Lily," I said quietly. "No matter where life takes you."
She smiled, leaning her head on my shoulder.
And in that moment, with the sound of waves faint in the distance and the hum of life around us, I felt something I hadn't felt in two hundred years —
Peace.
Not the still, lifeless peace of being trapped in porcelain,
but the living peace of belonging.