The National Express coach felt like a vibrating, anonymous capsule with grey upholstery and stale air.
Talia pressed her forehead against the cool glass and watched England blur by in a wash of green and grey. Every instinct told her she should be doing something. She should be on the phone, finding a new saffron supplier. She should be checking the shop's email. She should be worrying.
But her phone, resting in her lap, stayed silent.
No calls from Maya about the website crash. No texts from her mother about the landlord. No fires. No disasters.
The shop, her all-consuming burden, was fine without her.
That realization brought a confusing mix of relief and a sharp sting of irrelevance. If things were fine, what had she been breaking herself for?
She felt like an exile. She had been banished from her own life, not by enemies, but by her family. By the two people she had tried to protect. The irony left a bitter taste in her mouth.
Four hours. Four hours of vibrating, suspended time, with nothing to do but think.
Her mind left the hamster wheel of invoices and deliveries and returned to the mews. To the thump of her basket hitting the stones. To the scent of her ruined spices.
Two ghosts.
One was the driver. The faceless jerk in the black Rolls-Royce. The man who, with one indifferent turn of the wheel, had shattered her world. She hated him with a hot and personal passion.
The other was Jadon Asher.
This ghost was different. He was cold and invisible. He was the man who, with one bored phone call, had ended her future. He was the "phantom of the culinary world." He represented a dead end. She hated him with a cold and deep fury.
The coach hissed into the Manchester Piccadilly station, pulling her from her dark thoughts. She felt like a tourist in her own life. She stepped onto the concourse, dragging her small roller bag. She was immediately enveloped in a cloud of warm perfume and even warmer energy.
"Talia! Neshama! Soul of mine!"
Her Aunt Elara rushed toward her, a whirlwind of bright scarves, clattering bracelets, and a smile that seemed to generate its own light. Elara was the opposite of her mother—where Sarah was strength, Elara was a joyful force of nature. She grabbed Talia's face in both hands, her dark eyes scanning her critically.
"Oy, bubbeleh, Sarah was right," Elara said loudly enough for half the station to hear. "You are a ghost. You're grey! Look at these eyes! You look haunted. It's a shanda."
"Auntie, I'm fine," Talia mumbled, using the familiar, useless defense.
"You're fine," Elara scoffed, "if 'fine' means 'one strong wind from shattering.' We will fix this."
She took Talia's bag and started walking, linking her arm through Talia's and pulling her in. Talia had no choice but to go along. Elara's car, a slightly battered but loved Volvo, was double-parked, with a ticket already tucked under the wiper. Elara grabbed it, glanced at it, and tossed it into the glovebox with a collection of others.
"The price of convenience," she declared as she started the car.
The drive to Didsbury was filled with gossip, questions Talia didn't have time to answer, and detailed plans for her recovery.
"...and you will not lift a finger. My boys are all at university, the house is empty, and it's just you and me. We will eat. We will watch terrible TV. And you will sleep. And this," she said, pointing to Talia's phone, "this thing, this box of stress..."
She held out her hand. "Give it."
"What?" Talia held her phone tightly. "Auntie, I can't. The shop—"
"The shop," Elara said firmly, "is being run by your mother, who managed it with your father for twenty years before you decided you were Margaret Thatcher. She and Maya will call me if the building is on fire. Other than that? You are on a digital-free detox. Hand it over, Talia."
It felt like severing a limb. But looking at her aunt's loving face, Talia knew she had no choice. She placed the phone in Elara's outstretched hand. Elara switched it off and tossed it into the glovebox with the parking tickets.
"Excellent," Elara said, satisfied. "Rule one of your rescue: I am in charge. Rule two: You are not."
Elara's home reflected her personality: warm, messy, and filled with the smells of chicken soup, roasting garlic, and baking bread. Photos of cousins and grandchildren covered every surface. It was a house that was lived in.
"Go," Elara commanded, pointing to the kitchen. "Sit. There is soup."
Talia sat at the large, worn kitchen table. Elara placed a steaming bowl in front of her, along with a thick slice of challah. "Eat."
Talia ate. The soup was rich and hot, and she hadn't realized how hungry she was.
"Good," Elara said, watching her closely. "Now, you've had a long journey. Upstairs, second door on the left. Your room. Go to sleep."
"But it's... it's four in the afternoon," Talia protested weakly.
"And? You look like you haven't slept since 2022. Go."
Defeated, Talia walked upstairs. The room was cozy, with a soft, floral bedspread and a window overlooking a green garden. It was quiet. So quiet. There was no sound of the shop, no hum of the spice grinder, no looming dread of the ledger.
She was safe. She was rescued. She had been stripped of her phone, her responsibilities, and her identity as "the provider."
She took off her boots, intending to rest for a minute.
She fell asleep before her head hit the pillow, adrift in a new city, completely unaware that in another part of town, the other ghost had just arrived at his own sanctuary.