The physical memory of an old betrayal

Dear Delyara, Sometimes a smell is enough to tear open a wound you thought had healed years ago. Tonight, a passing stranger on the street was smoking the exact brand of cheap, sweet tobacco that he used to smoke—the person who took my investment, looked me in the eye with a smile, and quietly bankrupted our shared venture while I was working myself to the bone on the night watch. In an instant, the cold rain of Sheffield vanished, and I was back in that wood-paneled office, feeling my stomach drop into a bottomless, icy void of betrayal. My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached, and my hands curled into tight, trembling fists inside my pockets. I have rebuilt my assets, and I have secured my credit file, but the ghost of that betrayal still haunts my blood, waiting to remind me how easily a trusted hand can turn into a knife.