Atlas exhales through his nose—frustration and assent welded together.Finn squeezes the back of the couch near her shoulder—a presence, not a touch.
I close the laptop.We don’t stare at ghosts long enough to invite them.“Alright,” I say.“House rules for the night.Front deadbolt and chain set.Alarm on.Shades down.Bathroom light on—low light reads safer at three in the morning.Phone off stays off.If you want white noise, I’ll put the fan on.Shifts—Atlas takes first hall watch for two hours, I’ll take two to four, Finn pretends to sleep from four on and actually listens for the coffee pot.”
Finn salutes.“I am a world-class pretend sleeper.”
Wren huffs; it breaks and remakes something in the room.
“Food?”I ask.“You ate three bites in the second intermission and adrenaline stole the rest.”
She looks surprised to be hungry when I say it out loud.“Toast?”
“Toast,” I confirm, already in the kitchen, sliding bread into the toaster like that’s a piece of a plan too.It is.Small, warm, simple things teach bodies how to come back.
While it browns, I check the alarm panel, crack the living-room window a quarter inch—fresh air helps some brains—and set the hall lamp low.Atlas disappears and returns with his duffel from the car—he keeps one everywhere; of course he does.Finn reappears victorious with an air mattress held like a dance partner and a pump that wheezes like a dying animal.Wren laughs at the sound and presses a hand to her mouth like she’s not supposed to.She is.
I bring toast and a mug to the coffee table.She takes both with both hands and eats like she forgot food could be a soft thing.Color climbs back into her cheeks.The muscles around her eyes loosen.
“You’re not imposing,” I say, before she can try the sentence on.“You’re not fragile.You’re not a problem to solve.You’re a person we care about who deserves an easy night.”
Her eyes shine, just once.“Okay.”
“Say it,” Atlas mutters, not looking at her.
“I’m not imposing,” she repeats, a little breathless and a little defiant.
Finn grins.“There she is.”
When she’s done, I show her the room.Clean sheets.Window cracked to the yard.Door that doesn’t stick.A spare hoodie folded at the foot of the bed because sometimes weight helps and because the last person who stayed here during a blizzard left it and never wanted it back.
“You can close the door,” I say.“You can leave it open.You can lock it.If you wake and want noise, knock.If you wake and want quiet, text the thread and one of us will clear out.You’re steering.”
She tucks her hands into the hem of the hoodie and breathes it in like the smell might teach her body a new story.“Kael?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
It lands somewhere under my sternum and stays.“Sleep.”
I leave the door half, like she left it in the apartment—agency, not accident—and step back into the hallway.Atlas is already stretched on the newly inflated air mattress like it wronged him; he’ll sleep light and be up at every sound.Finn is in the guest room doorway, hair a mess, smile soft, eyes worried.
“What now?”he asks.
“Now we do boring things,” I say.“We sit, we listen, we breathe, we don’t make this louder than it is.”
“And if he’s here?”Atlas asks, low.
“We’ll see him in the morning,” I answer.“On a screen, with names and times.Tonight isn’t for hunting.”
Finn leans the back of his head against the frame and shuts his eyes like he’s practicing being calm.Atlas watches the dark end of the hall as if it owes him clarity.I take the couch, kill the lamp, leave the kitchen glow.
The house settles.The heater clicks.A car passes, slow, on the street.Somewhere a pipe knocks.It all builds a kind of rhythm you can sleep to if you let yourself.I don’t, not yet.I count to one hundred and back.I match my breath to the length of the room.I listen for the sound of a door opening that won’t come.
Half an hour later, the bedroom floor creaks—soft.Not fear.Bathroom break.The light glows, the light goes out, the floor creaks again.The door eases to the same angle I left it.A sigh.Silence.
I look at the ceiling until it turns from dark to less dark.
No ghosts.
