The living room comes first. Hospital bed by the window, exactly like before. A television playing some western in black and white, volume low. Her grandfather sleeps lightly, breath shallow but even. I pause there longer than I mean to, listening.
Alive. Safe.
Good.
I move on.
The hallway is narrow. Family photos on the wall—her younger, smiling with a woman who looks like her, then older pictures with the man in the bed before illness hollowed him out. A life distilled into frames.
Her bedroom door is half closed. I shouldn’t go in.
I do anyway.
She’s sprawled diagonally across the bed, covers kicked down, one arm flung out like she fell asleep mid-thought. Hair loose around her face. The tension I saw earlier is gone, replaced by something softer, younger.
Vulnerable.
I stop just inside the doorway.
Watching someone sleep is an intimacy you don’t earn. It’s something you’re either invited into, or you steal like I am right now.
I tell myself I’m checking. That I’m making sure she’s safe. That this is about protection, not curiosity. Somewhere between the first breath I count and the fifth, I stop lying to myself.
She stirs, brow furrowing like she’s fighting her way through a dream. I still completely, breath shallow, hand instinctively near my knife.
She relaxes again.
I let out a slow breath.
“Don’t do this,” I murmur under my breath—to myself, not her.
I don’t touch her. Not even a fingertip. I don’t want to know how that would feel, because I know how that would end. Instead, I back out of the room the way I came, closing the door to the same angle it was before. I make one last sweep of the house, checking windows, locks, sightlines.
No signs of trouble.
I leave the way I entered, slipping back into the night without a sound.
At the edge of the driveway, I look once more at the porch light. It’s still on. Steady.
I don’t knock.
I don’t leave a note.
I don’t give her my name.
Names make things real. And I’ve never been good at staying.
***
I spent last night at my motel room for a few hours before making the walk back to her place to get my bike. It was there long enough to make a statement. Now, I have to get home. Bella Vista, Arkansas isn’t just a hop, skip, and jump from Salemburg.
The ride back east is long and quiet. Smoke stops me after we cross into Tennessee, helmet tipped back, eyes sharp.
“You look like hell,” he says.
“Feel worse,” I reply.
“Car you had me park,” he chimes in. “Nice place she’s got.”
