He’s quiet for a long moment, studying my face like he’s trying to read something written there in a language he’s not sure he understands.
"That’s a dangerous question, Charity."
"Why?"
"Because once you start breaking free of that cage, there’s no going back to being the person everyone expects you to be. And some people won’t like the person you become."
"Then let it be dangerous," I say. "Danger means I picked it."
My parents come to mind—their carefully orchestrated plans for my life, of the way they’ve built their entire identity around protecting me from a world they see as fundamentally hostile.
Grace’s preserved bedroom rises in my memory and the ghost I’ve been trying to become for twenty-five years.
I think of Lucky, who chose to trust us despite every reason to remain cautious.
"I’m tired of being safe," I say finally. "Tired of living someone else’s life. If you’re offering to show me how to live as myself… yes. I want that."
Draco pushes off from the counter and crosses to where I’m sitting. He reaches down and takes my hand. The contact is simple and devastating; heat climbs my arm and settles somewhere that has nothing to do with safety.
Lucky lifts his head, sighs like an old man, and presses closer—as if we’ve passed some test.
"Then we’ll figure it out together," he says simply.
Outside, the sun is high in the sky, drenching the cottage in sunshine. Tomorrow, I’ll have to return to the main house, resume my role as the dutiful daughter who never causes any trouble.
But today, sitting here with Lucky warm against my side and this mysterious stranger holding my hand like it’s something precious, I feel like myself for the first time in my life.
Lucky stretches and settles deeper into sleep, completely content to be exactly where he is.
They named me Charity—the virtue of giving. But today, for the first time, I'm taking something for myself.
And it feels like coming home.
Chapter Eight
Draco
"You ever wonder what it feels like to breathe for yourself?"
The question slips out before I can stop it. Charity's still sitting on the sofa, one hand absently scratching Lucky's ear, the other gripping her knee like she's holding herself together. She looks like she’s been holding her breath for years—eyes red, shoulders locked tight, trying to look calm and not quite pulling it off.
She'd told me everything. About Grace. About being born as a replacement, living in a house that worships a ghost. She hadn't even cried, not really. Just unraveled, word by word, until the truth lay there between us like broken glass.
And now silence stretches, heavy and suffocating.
Her gaze flicks to me like she's not sure she's allowed to answer.
"Breathe for myself?" Her voice sounds scraped raw as she truly ponders my question. "No. I don't think I ever have."
Something tightens in my chest. Different worlds, different centuries, but pain? That I know.
"I didn’t get freedom," I say quietly, "I got… survival. No one cared enough to control me, that’s all. When no one’s watching, you can go where you want, but you can also disappear and nobody notices.”
"You were free because no one cared."
"Yeah." I meet her eyes. "You're trapped because they care too much."
She doesn't argue. Doesn't deny it. Just folds in on herself, hands pressing into her lap like she wants to disappear. Lucky lifts his head, licking her wrist like he's trying to glue her back together.
