“Take your time,” he says quietly. “You’re alright. Just breathe.”
I blink hard, tears spilling faster now that I’m trying so desperately to hide them. I press the heel of my hand to my cheek, but my voice still cracks. “I… I—”
He nods once, slowly. Acceptance, not pressure. He sets the box on the porch step and backs away, giving me space without leaving abruptly enough to make me feel abandoned.
The sun slips behind the treeline. The lake turns to a sheet of molten copper. The crickets begin their chorus like nothing monumental has just happened.
When he’s far enough away, he glances back. Not checking up on me—just making sure I’m not collapsing. Then he walks toward his house, that steady stride of his, leaving me with the quiet and the fading light.
I exhale shakily, my whole body trembling from the emotional whiplash. My phone vibrates—Banks calling back. I send a quick text:
I’m fine. Neighbor came by.
It’s a lie and the truth.
I pick up my journal. My hands still shake. The guitar lies beside me, silent, warm, waiting.
I write two lines. Only two. My handwriting is uneven and shaky, but it’s there.
Someone heard me today.
And it didn’t break me.
I close the journal slowly, pressing it to my chest.
For the first time in months, the emptiness inside me loosens by a fraction—small, fragile, but real.
A flicker of possibility.
A breath.
A beginning.
Chapter 8
Ethan
I’minthekitchen,absently checking the pantry for something—anything—that isn’t instant coffee, when the doorbell rings. Sharp. Insistent. Like someone’s deliberately testing my patience.
“Bloody hell,” I mutter under my breath, wiping my hands on a tea towel.
Before I can move, the door swings open. My sister, Charlotte, is first through, all bright smiles and silk scarves, carrying herself like she’s already won the room. Behind her, the parental units follow, their posture perfect, their expressions meticulously pleased.
And then I hear a shout. Sharp. Insistent.
“Nana!”
I freeze. Then there’s a small thud on the driveway. Lily, holding her new guitar, runs straight for the door. Behind her, an SUV door slams. And then I see Lucky stepping out. She hesitates, hand on the car, keeping a polite—but very noticeable—distance.
“Lucky—” I start, but it’s too late.
I barely have time to say anything before my mother is practically out of the house and yanking Lucky up the steps.
“Oh, you’ll come in! Don’t stand on ceremony,” she says, all smiles and imperious energy.
“I really—” Lucky starts, but my mother is already steering her toward thehallway.
“Neighbour?” my mother asks, tilting her head like she’s testing the word on her tongue. “Nonsense. You must join us for dinner!”
