Page 5 of Claimed By the Mothman
Goldie gave her a look of half-sympathy, half subtle invitation. The kind of look that saidyou can say more, if you want to.
And Nell, to her horror, did.
“He said I wasn’t who I used to be,” she said. “That I stopped being easy. Stopped being soft. That I got distracted, and I was always tired andsomewhere else. That I had too many feelings. That I wastoo muchand not enough. Somehow both at the same time.”
She looked up at Goldie, bracing for judgment. But Goldie just tilted her head, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug like she was letting Nell warm herself on the edges.
And, surprisingly, Nell felt lighter. Like she’d just let something out that had been pressing behind her ribs for months. Not gone, butaired. Less sharp. Less shadowed.
"You know what's funny?" Goldie continued, stirring her latte with unnecessary precision. "I've been in Bellwether for three years, and I still feel like I'm playing dress-up sometimes. Like I'm this close to being found out as a fraud." She held up her thumb and forefinger, barely apart. "But, then, someone like you shows up, and I remember that maybe we're all just making it up as we go along."
She reached across the table and took Nell’s hand. “I know it’s a lot, but Ireallythink this is your opportunity to get your groove back.”
Nell let out a tiny, half-disbelieving laugh. Goldie squeezed her hand.
“Honestly, the job is kind of perfect,” Goldie said. “The place is quiet, and super peaceful. My boss is absolutely lovely, and everyone is kind and keeps to themselves. It’s been perfect. The interview’s tomorrow at eleven, but between us? It’s a formality. The job’s yours if you want it. Pinkie swears.”
Nell’s throat tightened. Her eyes stung, sudden and sharp. She blinked hard and looked down at their hands on the table—one covered in cheap lotion, the other in rings and constellation polish.
“What’s wrong?” Goldie asked softly.
“Nothing,” Nell said, and then: “I just...don’t know where I’m going to live yet. I can’t keep staying at that hotel, that much I know.”
Goldie withdrew her hand quickly, her eyes widening. “Wait. Iknewthere was something—I saw a post somewhere—”
She dove into her purse, pulled out her phone, and began tapping on it like she was defusing a bomb. A few seconds passed, and then she whooped.
“I was right!” She spun the phone around and set it in front of Nell with a triumphant grin. “Greymarket Towers. There’s a vacancy.”
Nell frowned, squinting at the screen. The text was too small to read, and the picture was nothing but a sad little box with a question mark in the middle, but the name sounded familiar. “Oh, that. Yeah, I think I drove past it on the way here? It’s all grown over with ivy and stuff. I thought maybe it was condemned.”
“Nope,” Goldie said, delight ringing in her voice. “Fully functional and the building’s got a vibe. It just doesn’t have vacancies usually, but I got a Zillow alert on the way over here. I’m jealous, by the way. If I didn’t love my mortgage rate, I’d move in an instant.”
Nell hesitated. “Is it expensive?”
“From what I hear, it’s exclusiveandaffordable,” Goldie said, winking. “I’ll text you the address. Look it up. It might be just what you need.”
—
After Goldie left in a whirl of perfume and oversized earrings, the café felt quieter. The space she'd filled with brightness and motion seemed to sigh after her departure, like the room itself missed her.
Nell lingered, hands wrapped around a now-lukewarm mug of tea, staring out the window without seeing much at all.
Greymarket Towers.
She said the name in her head a few times, testing it like a foreign word. It sounded theatrical, like it belonged in a gothic short story. Not real life. Notherboring, sad, so-ordinary-it-breaks-your-heart life.
Eventually, she pulled out her laptop.
The screen flared to life, casting a pale reflection across her face. For a moment, her own image stared back at her—ghostlike, faintly distorted. Her eyes were tired and bruised around the edges like she hadn’t slept well in weeks. Which was true.
She typed:Greymarket Towers.
The website loaded with a reluctant flicker. It was bare bones and slightly off-center, like someone had designed it on a free trial in 2004 and never looked back. Serif fonts. Mismatched icons. No animations.
And yet…the listing.
Unit 4C.Hardwood floors. A clawfoot tub with a copper showerhead and curtain. A built-in window ledge that caught the sunlight in every photo. Wide walls. Gentle corners. It felt, impossibly, like a room she’d seen once in a dream and never found again—or one she’d been trying to remember for years.
