Aching to Love: Fighting the ghosts of our past

The rain hadn't stopped falling in three days, and Mara Sinclair was beginning to think it never would. She pressed her forehead against the cold window of her cramped studio apartment, watching the water cascade down the glass in rivulets that reminded her too much of tears. The city below seemed to weep with her, its streets slick and dark under the pale yellow glow of the streetlights.

She shouldn't have come back to Cardiff. Every rational part of her mind had screamed against it when she'd packed her few belongings and left London six months ago. But rationality had little power over the ache that had settled deep in her chest, the hollow feeling that followed her everywhere like a shadow she couldn't shake.

The knock on her door came at exactly nine-thirty, just as it had every night for the past week. Mara didn't need to look through the peephole to know who stood on the other side. She could feel his presence like a storm gathering on the horizon, electric and dangerous and impossible to ignore.

"I know you're in there, Mara." His voice was low, rough with an emotion she couldn't name. "We need to talk."

She closed her eyes, her hand hovering over the deadbolt. Rhys Morgan. The man who had shattered her world and then disappeared into the night like smoke, leaving her to pick up the pieces of a life that no longer made sense.

"Go away, Rhys." Her voice came out stronger than she felt. "There's nothing left to say."

"There's everything left to say." The door handle rattled as he tested it, and she was grateful she'd had the sense to lock it. "Please. Just five minutes."