I exhale slowly. This is the fracture point. Containment isn’t holding anymore. “You weren’t supposed to find that,” I say quietly.
Her jaw tightens. “That’s not an explanation.”
“No.”
Silence stretches.
Her hand shifts against my sternum, fingers sliding beneath button gaps. Direct skin this time.
The stabilization locks instantly. Complete.
The hollow in my chest seals. The air in the room feels denser. Safer.
Her eyes widen. “You feel that,” she says. Not a question.
I don’t deny it. Because I can’t.
Downstairs, the wind moves across the porch in a low sweep. No storm. No thunder. Just presence.
She swallows. “You were thirteen in nineteen sixty-six.”
“Yes.”
Her breath catches. “That’s not possible.”
“No.”
Another silence.
“What are you?”
The question isn’t hysterical. It’s academic. Which somehow makes it worse.
I meet her gaze. For the first time since this began, I don’t reach for discipline. I reach for truth. “I don’t fully know,” I say. And that’s the most honest thing I’ve said since she arrived.
Her fingers curl tighter. And this time, the hum doesn’t spike. It settles. Like something long denied has finally been acknowledged.
Her palm flattens over my heart. It feels like syncing. Like finding a shared rhythm.
It’s terrifying.
“You didn’t age,” she repeats.
Still observation. Not hysteria.
“Differently. That’s all.” The words barely leave my throat.
Her body stiffens. Then she pulls back. Not violently. But enough.
And the pain hits instantly. Sharp. White. Like something tearing just beneath my ribs.
She gasps at the same moment. Her hand flies to her own sternum. “What?—”
The hum spikes. The air in the room tightens.
She looks at me, and I see it. Recognition. Not of time. Of sensation.
She reaches forward again. Tentative. Her hand presses against my chest.
