Emma decided to disappear at 3:00 p.m. on Tuesday.
She was standing in the office break room, watching the coffee machine slowly drip dark brown liquid, when her phone screen lit up with yet another “Please reply” message from the work group chat. In that moment, she suddenly felt as if the air had grown thin, as if she’d been crammed into a glass bottle that was far too small.
She didn’t reply. Instead, she grabbed her coat, pushed open the heavy glass door, and stepped out into the November wind.
She had no destination in mind; she simply hopped on the red double-decker bus that looked the oldest. The bus swayed as it wound its way through the crowded streets, finally coming to a stop in a seaside town whose name she’d never heard before.
Time here seemed to move half a beat slower than in the city.
Emma wandered aimlessly along the cobblestone path. The air was filled with the scent of roasted chestnuts mixed with sea salt. As she passed a bakery, the warm yellow light from the window spread like a pat of melted butter, gently coating the chilly street.
She pushed open the door, and the brass bell on it rang out with a crisp “ding-dong.”
The shopkeeper was an elderly gentleman with graying hair, wearing reading glasses as he repaired a broken music box. When he saw Emma, he didn’t rush to make a sale; he simply smiled and pointed to a freshly baked cinnamon roll: “That looks perfect with a hot cocoa, doesn’t it?”
Emma bought one and sat down at a table by the window. The cinnamon roll was piping hot; with one bite, the sweet, rich icing and crispy crust melted on her tongue. The satisfying feeling of those hearty carbohydrates finally made her shoulders—which had been tense all morning—sink in relief.
Outside the window, an orange cat was dozing on the mailbox, its tail idly sweeping away the dust.
“His name is Oreo, even though he’s orange,” the old man said as he walked over carrying two cups of hot drinks, placing one in front of Emma. “This is for you—to celebrate your successful ‘escape.’”
Emma paused for a moment, then smiled. “How did you know?”
“Because only someone who isn’t in a hurry would stare at that cat for more than five minutes.” The old gentleman blinked, then turned away to continue fiddling with the music box.
As the spring wound, a tinkling melody flowed out—a very, very old nursery rhyme.
Emma held her hot cocoa, watching the sky outside gradually darken. Streetlights came on one by one, like strings of stars that had fallen to earth. She suddenly realized she hadn’t missed any important meetings, nor had she let anyone down.
In this unfamiliar little town, on this cinnamon-scented twilight, she was just an ordinary passerby, allowed a moment of undisturbed peace.
That night, Emma didn’t check her phone. She slept soundly at the town’s inn—a good night’s sleep she hadn’t had in a long time. In her dreams, there was no alarm clock, only the sound of waves gently lapping against the rocks.
Early the next morning, she boarded the train back home.
When she returned to the city, everything seemed unchanged, but Emma knew that something was different. In her pocket was a crumpled receipt from the bakery, with a crooked smiley face drawn on it.
It was a temporary pass she’d given herself—proof that she’d briefly possessed freedom.
