Chapter 1

the cursor blinked on the screen, a tiny, mocking heartbeat in the dim light of my bedroom. For three years, this had been the rhythm of my life: the hopeful click of ‘send,’ the agonising wait, and the inevitable, soul-crushing rejection. My degree in English Literature, which had felt so promising in the buzzing halls of my American college, now felt about as useful as a chocolate teapot back in my quiet hometown.



I had traded late-night library sessions and raucous dorm parties for a sagging sofa and a slow, creeping dread. My unemployment had become a personality trait I did not ask for.




That is when the notification chimed, a sound so alien it made me jump. Not a rejection email. A new message. The name on the sender line hit me like a shot of adrenaline: Melody Summers.



Just reading her name was enough to transport me back. Melody was not just a friend; she was a force of nature. A tall, curvy blonde bombshell who moved through the world like she owned the patent on sunshine. She did not walk into a room; she made an entrance.


Heads turned, conversations paused, and the atmosphere shifted. And yet, for some reason I could never fathom, she had chosen me. Me, the quiet, perpetually broke girl from a different country who was more comfortable in the stacks than at a kegger.




She was the one who would pull me onto the dance floor at parties when I was trying to become one with the wallpaper. She would lean over in our shared creative writing class and whisper, “Your poem just made the professor’s soul weep, you beautiful weirdo.” And she never, ever let me pay for coffee.




Often, my stomach would be growling, my wallet empty, and she would appear, two steaming paper cups in hand, handing one to me with a flourish. I would protest, feeling the familiar heat of shame on my cheeks, and she would just wink, a mischief that could curdle milk, and say, “Oh well, someone loves to give me some sugar.” I never did figure out who her ‘sugar’ was, and with Melody, you learned not to question the magic.




Staring at her email now, the contrast was so sharp it hurt. ‘Hey stranger! It has been an ice age. How is the world treating you?’




A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Treating me? I thought. It has got me in a headlock and is giving me a noogie. My fingers, trembling slightly, flew across the keyboard. I did not hold back. I told her everything. The endless string of interviews that went nowhere.




The polite, soulless rejections. The sinking feeling that I was a fraud and my degree was a worthless piece of paper. I told her I was thinking of giving up, of just admitting defeat and getting a job at the local supermarket, letting the person I was in college wither and die. I hit send before I could second-guess the torrent of self-pity.




Her reply was almost instant. Of course it was. Melody did not do waiting.



‘Bullshit. You are not giving up. Pack a bag. Why don’t you come back to the States?’

My heart hammered against my ribs.



‘I am still here. And a sweet friend of mine—emphasis on SWEET—owns a publishing company. They are always looking for bright, enthusiastic people. I have already mentioned you. Do not overthink it. Just come.’





And then, before I could even process the offer, another email landed. It was a confirmation. Two first-class tickets, booked for two days’ time. The lunatic. She knew me so well. If she had given me a week, I would have talked myself out of it. I would have found a dozen reasons why I was not good enough, why this was a terrible idea. But two days? That was a hostage situation, a benevolent kidnapping. It was pure, unadulterated Melody.




The next forty-eight hours were a blur of frantic packing and gut-wrenching anxiety. I threw clothes into my worn backpack, a strange mix of sensible interview outfits and the ratty t-shirt I had worn to study for finals.




One part of my brain was screaming at me to stop, to cancel, to crawl back into the safety of my miserable routine. But another part, a smaller, braver part that sounded suspiciously like Melody, was whispering, Go. Just go.





And now, here I am. Standing at Gate B27, the scent of Cinnabon and jet fuel thick in the air. The squeak of sneakers on the polished floor and the garble of distant announcements fills my head. I clutch my boarding pass in one hand, its crisp, professional feel a stark contrast to the frayed strap of my backpack slung over my shoulder. My backpack, stuffed with a life of maybes, feels flimsy against the weight of this opportunity.




Part of me, a large, loud part, wants to run. To turn around, go home, and face the familiar, comfortable disappointment. It is what I know. But the other part… the other part is burning with curiosity. Who was this sweet friend?




The way Melody had emphasized it made it sound like a code word. Was he a kindly old gentleman who wore tweed and smelled of pipe tobacco? Or a gentle, motherly woman who would pat my hand and tell me everything would be all right?




“Sweet” was such a Melody word. It could mean anything. It could be the truth, or it could be one of her elaborate, beautiful jokes. And as I stand there, watching the ground crew ready the plane, I realize that I do not just want a job. I want to know. I want to see the world through Melody’s eyes again, even just for a moment. I want to believe that for once, things are just falling into my lap. That someone up there is, finally, helping.



The final boarding call for my flight echoes through the terminal. This is it. The point of no return. Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders and walk towards the gate, handing the attendant my pass.



I am running from the ghost of the person I have become and running towards the echo of the person I used to be. And, just maybe, a new version I have not even met yet.