Lucy gripped the pen. She thought of her boss, who took credit for her work. She thought of her mother, who insisted she marry the local dentist. She thought of the beige walls of her apartment.
Lucy Thorne lived her life by a series of color-coded spreadsheets. She had a five-year plan for her career in forensic accounting, a three-year plan for a mortgage, and a weekly meal prep schedule that never deviated from "Meatless Monday." In the small town of Oakhaven, she was known as the girl who always remembered birthdays, never parked over the line, and consistently wore beige because it was "sensible." Her best friend, Mia, called her "The Human Protractor." A Nice Girl Like You
The Midnight Gallery was not a museum; it was a sanctuary of "lost things." The air smelled of rain and old paper. Inside, a man with ink-stained fingers and a crooked tie looked up from a desk. "You’re late," he said, not unkindly. Lucy gripped the pen
"There is no Wickham Lane in Oakhaven," Lucy muttered, her thumb tracing the embossed gold on the journal cover. She thought of the beige walls of her apartment
"Actually," Lucy said, her voice steady and strange to her own ears, "I think I’m done being nice. I’ve decided to be interesting instead."
Lucy laughed, the sound brittle in the quiet room. "I don’t do 'versions.' I do spreadsheets. I’m a nice, predictable girl."