ALEXANDER
It’s been weeks since we returned.
Emmaline’s still quiet, too quiet sometimes. She moves through the halls like a ghost, her touch softer, her voice lower, her eyes always somewhere else. I try not to take it personally, but it’s hard not to. I can see the wall she’s built, even if I pretend I can’t.
Still, she’s here. That’s what I tell myself whenever the silence stretches too long between us. She’s here, she’s safe, and she’s alive. For now, that’s enough.
Every morning, I find an excuse to check on her. Sometimes I stop by the garden where she sits with Maggie, her hands resting absently on her growing belly. Sometimes I linger in the hallway, pretending to talk to a guard just to catch the sound of her laughter — rare, but when it happens, it feels like sunlight after t
