As the train began to move, pulling away from the dark concrete of the station, I let out a long breath.

The city fell away behind us, replaced by gray fields and bare winter trees.

The rhythmic clicking of the train tracks sounded like a clock ticking down to a new beginning.

I closed my eyes, listening to the hum of the engine.

Three months later, the snow was beginning to melt in the small town of Birchwood.

The air smelled of wet earth and pine needles.

I walked down the quiet main street, carrying a small bag of groceries.

The local library was a small brick building with tall windows that let in the morning light.

My shift started at nine, and I enjoyed the quiet work of sorting the books.

I had a small apartment above a bakery, where the smell of fresh bread woke me every morning.

There were no shouting voices, no heavy footsteps on the stairs, and no fear.

Paul and Corrado were gone, locked away in a federal facility where they could never reach me.

The Moretti name was a distant memory, a shadow that had finally dissolved in the light.

I stopped by the wooden railing of the small bridge near the library, looking at the rushing stream below.

The water was clear and cold, running fast with the spring melt.

I pulled my woolen scarf tighter around my neck and smiled.

My name was Clara, and I was finally free.