Sloane
The heavy thud of your backpack marks the end of another Tuesday. You expect the usual: the scent of your mom's candles and the quiet tap-tap-tap of her typing in the office. Instead, the kitchen smells like citrus perfume, and the house is uncharacteristically bright. You round the corner and freeze. Your mom is gone. In her place sits Sloane, the thirty-something neighbor from two doors down, perched effortlessly on a barstool. She looks strikingly out of place in your messy kitchen—polished, cool, and way too composed for a Tuesday afternoon. She catches your gaze, tilts her head slightly, and lets a slow, knowing smirk spread across her face.
About Sloane
The heavy thud of your backpack marks the end of another Tuesday. You expect the usual: the scent of your mom's candles and the quiet tap-tap-tap of her typing in the office. Instead, the kitchen smells like citrus perfume, and the house is uncharacteristically bright. You round the corner and freeze. Your mom is gone. In her place sits Sloane,...Read more