Mingie was a few weeks past the age of 24 when she walked past the open gate of Holloway Prison and into freedom. She wore no makeup, and her skin, pale from the lack of sunlight, bore a stark contrast to her strawberry-blond hair, which hung almost halfway down her back. In one hand she gripped a cheap cardboard suitcase, its corners already fraying. Her other hand remained clenched at her side. She wore distressed jeans and a tank top -- clothes five years out of fashion, but they were all she had left of her past.
She walked, not bothering with the occasional car that passed her. She was free, and she could walk or run as she pleased. The air felt different outside the confines of the prison, lighter, unconfined. The distant hum of traffic and the chatter of pedestrians mixed with the rustling leaves of the sparse trees lining the pavement. She moved more purposefully, reaching Islington, where the city seemed alive with energy, its streets bustling with people going about their day.
She was a petite woman, standing at 5'5", with a wiry frame that had grown leaner in Holloway. Her once soft features had hardened slightly, her cheekbones more prominent, her eyes -- once a gentle meadow green -- now carrying an intensity that hadn't been there before. Five years behind bars had drained the vibrancy from her skin, leaving it pale from the lack of sunlight. Each time her strawberry-blond hair -- long, limp and lifeless -- brushed her back or shoulders, it was a reminder of the years she'd spent surviving rather than living. Her skin, however, was sprinkled with a million tiny freckles, dotting her nose, her arms, the barely exposed parts of her collarbone--furnishing an almost childlike contrast to the hardened woman she had become.
Holloway had changed her. The first year had been the hardest, the cold of confinement sinking into her bones, the ever-present feeling of being watched gnawing at her sanity. She had learned quickly -- who to avoid, when to speak, and when silence was the safest choice. Fights broke out often, and though she tried to keep her head down, she had her fair share of bruises, her fair share of nights spent staring at the concrete ceiling, wondering if she'd make it out unscathed. But she'd adapted. She'd spent her time wisely, completing her neglected education, throwing herself into books as a means of escape. Somewhere along the way, she had found purpose, a determination to never return to a life of desperation and regret.
Her desperation had landed her in Holloway in the first place. Homeless and barely scraping by, she had spent her teenage years sleeping in stairwells of apartment buildings and sneaking into community centers to escape the cold. She had managed to earn small amounts of money by babysitting for families who took a chance on her, trusting her with their children while she had nowhere stable to live herself. At the time, she'd resented them -- their warm homes, their full refrigerators, the security they had which she lacked. Now, looking back, she felt sympathy rather than bitterness. They'd been good people. They'd given her a chance. And she had thrown it all away.
The robbery had been a reckless, drug-fueled mistake. She and a group of so-called friends had broken into a pharmacy, desperate for cash and pills. What they hadn't counted on was the high-tech security and the swift arrival of the police. The officers had tried to detain her, but in her frenzied state, she had fought like a cornered animal -- kicking, punching, scratching, biting, anything to escape. The assault on the officers had turned what could have been a lesser charge into something much worse. Instead of a simple breaking and entering conviction, she'd been charged with robbery and grievous bodily harm. Five years in Holloway had been the price she'd paid.
She walked free from prison with the little amount of money the authorities deemed that she deserved after five years of being incarcerated. In addition to that, in her suitcase, she had fresh socks and hideously ugly plain linen underwear, the kind issued to all released female inmates. Her chest needed no support. She'd spent her whole teen and young adult life wanting a handful of boobs, but now, she barely thought about it. The feeling of possibility, of endless choices, filled her more than any superficial concern ever could.
Laughing softly to herself, she strolled along the streets, amazed at her surroundings. The vibrant storefronts, the buskers playing soft melodies on their guitars, the scent of fresh bread wafting from a bakery -- it all felt overwhelming yet exhilarating. The rich, heady aroma of brewed coffee drew her like a magnet, warm and inviting. It was a smell she hadn't experienced in years, at least not in its authentic form. She followed the scent eagerly, her feet leading her to a quaint little coffee shop--The Brewery--a misnomer if ever there was one.
The place was cozy, with dark wooden furniture, low-hanging pendant lights casting a soft glow, and the gentle hum of conversations blending with the hiss of steaming milk. The walls were adorned with shelves of coffee beans in glass jars, each labeled with exotic names she couldn't even pronounce.
She stepped up to the counter and stared at the large menu behind it, her eyes darting over the endless options. Espresso, Americano, macchiato, cortado--so many unfamiliar words. The sheer variety overwhelmed her. Not wanting to appear hesitant, she quickly pointed at the simplest option she could find. "Just a filtered coffee. With cream," she said, her voice even but uncertain.
The clerk, a sharp-eyed man with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, eyed her up and down and noticed the suitcase. "Fresh out, huh?" he muttered sympathetically, soft enough so only she would hear. The comment actually stung, but she kept her face neutral, unwilling to let him see it bother her.
Before she could respond, a man who had just entered the shop stepped up behind her. "I'll get that," he said smoothly, placing a few bills on the counter. "And one for me too."
Mingie turned to look at him -- tall, mid-thirties, with an easygoing confidence and warm brown eyes. "Thanks," she muttered, unsure why he was bothering to help.
"Phillip," he introduced himself with a small smile, leading her to a nearby table. She followed hesitantly, unsure whether to trust his kindness but too tired to refuse it.
Mingie returned his smile with one that was more uncertain. "Mingie," she introduced herself. They sat, sipping their coffee, exchanging small talk about nothing in particular -- how the city had changed, the weather, the taste of real coffee. It was the first normal conversation she'd had in years. Phillip didn't ask about her past, didn't press her for details, and for that, she was grateful.
He studied her, his gaze almost inspecting her. Her drawn features, the way her slim, willowy frame moved with quiet confidence despite the obvious vulnerability beneath the surface. She was nothing like his late wife -- Melissa had been vibrant, curvaceous, full of life. The contrast was stark. His throat tightened as the memory surfaced -- Melissa with her constant infidelities, while he was away on business, leaving their daughter in the care of their house keeper while his wife over indulged herself with every vice she could find. Their trial separation. Meeting her as arranged outside the beauty salon, smiling, a glow about her, the sudden the screech of tires, the sickening impact. A drunk driver had ended her life two years ago. Now, it was just him and Julie, his five-year-old daughter, trying to piece together a world that had shattered in an instant.
Phillip took a deep breath and decided to take a chance. "I have a five-year-old daughter," he said suddenly. "Her mother, my wife, recently passed away. I work long hours -- stockbroker. My own firm is here in Islington -- and I need a nanny. Someone I can trust, someone who wants to better themselves." He hesitated, then added, "I also need to be in Paris for an extended trip, meeting with some very important investors. But Julie... she's not in a fit state to travel."
Mingie bit her lip before responding. "Phillip... I need to tell you something. I'm not sure I'm the right person for this." She gestured to her suitcase and outdated clothing. "I just got out of Holloway this morning. Five years for a robbery that went bad. I was high, reckless, and stupid, and I hurt people. I've changed, I swear I have, but I don't know if you want someone like me around your daughter."
Phillip studied her face, noting the flicker of shame, the weight of regret. "You used your time in Holloway to educate yourself, right?"
