All that was left : what remains after darkness?

CHAPTER 8

Jonas's POV

Two days after the doctors finally cleared her, Rita drove us back to Zara's house.

The moment we pulled up, Zara froze. She didn't move, didn't even reach for the handle. Her eyes were locked on the door, wide and unblinking, like crossing that threshold would rip her apart all over again. Ten minutes passed. Ten minutes of silence, her breathing shallow and uneven, her hands trembling in her lap.

Neither Rita nor I pushed her. We waited. Because this wasn't something you could rush.

When she still couldn't bring herself to touch the door, Rita stepped forward. She opened it first, slipping inside cautiously, scanning every corner as if to prove it was safe.

Zara followed a moment later. Her steps were slow, unsteady. When her eyes lifted, I saw the exact second the memories crashed into her. The living room was frozen in time… shards of glass glinting across the floor, furniture flipped where it had fallen, the shattered vase still scattered in pieces. And there, scattered like silent witnesses, were the torn scraps of fabric he'd ripped from her body.

Her face went pale. I reached for her hand without thinking. She gripped mine like it was the only thing tethering her to the ground. I let her squeeze as hard as she needed.

Together, step by step, we moved through the wreckage until we reached her room.

It was exactly how she had left it. The bed was unmade, her shelves crowded with trinkets, game cases, and little pieces of herself that still clung to the space. For a moment, she just stood there, taking it all in.

We started packing slowly. Her gaming console first, then her tablet and PC, wrapping the cords carefully so nothing got left behind. A few sets of clothes followed, shoes lined neatly into a bag. She paused when we found the framed pictures of her parents. Her fingers lingered over the glass, brushing the edges as if she could touch them through it. Her eyes watered, but she didn't cry… not yet. She just held them close before placing them carefully in the box.

Her skincare bottles, her cosmetics, all the small routines that made her feel like herself, we gathered them gently. Rita found a folder stacked with files from her parents' lawyers, and those went into a separate bag.

Piece by piece, we packed up what was left of her life in this house. And the entire time, I never let go of her hand.

Because I knew, no matter what she carried out of here, what she left behind was heavier.

When we were done, Rita clapped her hands softly, like she was closing a chapter.

"Both of you need to wash up," she said. "Properly. You've been living out of that hospital for days. Go. I'll handle the rest."

Zara didn't argue. She just nodded, looking drained, and led me down the hall before peeling off toward her bathroom. She showed me to the guest bedroom across from hers, murmured something about clean towels in the wardrobe, then disappeared behind her door.

I stepped inside the guest room and froze.

Everything about it screamed money. The bed, massive, with crisp sheets tucked so perfectly it looked like a hotel display. The chandelier overhead wasn't some cheap fixture; it glittered like crystal. Even the wallpaper had texture, the kind you only see in expensive houses or catalogs.

I knew Zara was well-off. I mean, I wasn't blind, her gaming setup alone was enough of a clue. But standing here, in just the guest bedroom? Damn. It hit different.

My house back home suddenly felt like a barn in comparison, standing here made me feel... small. Poor. Like I didn't belong in this world she lived in.

I rubbed the back of my neck, sighing. I wasn't supposed to be thinking about that right now. Zara had just faced down the ghosts of her past, and here I was, distracted by luxury ceilings and gold-trimmed lamps. But it lit a fire in me all the same.

I needed to make money. Real money. Not just enough to scrape by, but enough that I'd never feel like this again… out of place in a girl's guest room.

I shook the thought off and moved toward the bathroom. One step at a time, I told myself. For now, she needed me present. The rest, I'd figure out later.

⸻

Steam clung to my skin as I stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung low on my hips. I rubbed at my damp hair with one hand, the other holding my dirty clothes in a ball. The second I sniffed them, I winced. God. Hospital air and days of sweat clung to the fabric, I smelled like I hadn't changed in forever. Which... was true.

I was still debating whether to risk pulling them back on when a knock tapped at the door.

"Yeah?" My voice came out rougher than I meant.

"It's me," Zara's voice floated through, soft but clear.

"Come in."

The door creaked open. The moment she stepped inside and caught sight of me, she froze. Her eyes went wide, then she spun on her heel so fast her hair whipped around her shoulders, face angled hard toward the door like it could swallow her whole.

Heat pricked at the back of my neck. Right. Towel. Naked. Great.

She held out her hand behind her, clutching a folded bundle. "I, um... thought you could wear these. You've been in the same clothes for days."

I stepped forward quickly and took them from her before she could bolt. The fabric was soft, oversized, a dark sweater and a pair of gray sweats. They smelled faintly of detergent and something warmer, almost comforting.

"Thanks," I said, meaning it. My fingers brushed hers when I took the clothes, and she yanked her hand back like she'd been burned.

Without another word, she darted out the door, shutting it behind her with a muted click.

I stared at the clothes for a long second, chest tightening. They were her dad's, she hadn't needed to say it. Somehow, that made it heavier. She trusted me enough to hand me a piece of him.

I sat on the edge of the bed, towel still clinging to me, and let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. Zara wasn't just letting me stay in her world, she was making space for me in it. And damn if that didn't do something to me.

⸻

The sweater hung loose on me, the sweats just a little long, but they were clean and warm, and right now that was all I needed. My hair was still damp, droplets sliding down the back of my neck as I padded barefoot down the stairs.

The moment I reached the bottom, I froze.

The house... didn't look the same. The shattered glass, the flipped furniture, the jagged reminders of what had happened here… it was all gone. The air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner, fresh and sharp, like the place had been scrubbed from top to bottom.

How long had I even been in the shower? Twenty minutes? Thirty? Long enough, apparently, for the past to be wiped from the floorboards.

Movement caught my eye. Rita came in through the back door, peeling off a pair of yellow gloves. She wore a loose, comfortable outfit, leggings and a soft top, her hair tied back messily, sweat glistening on her forehead.

"You cleaned all this?" I asked before I could stop myself.

She glanced up, spotted me, and offered a small smile. "Couldn't let Zara walk into that again. She's leaving tomorrow, and I don't want her last memory of this place to be..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Better she remembers her home clean. Warm. Not broken."

I nodded slowly, throat tight. It made sense. Zara was flying out to London tomorrow. Tonight would be her last night here before everything changed.

Rita tossed the gloves into a bucket by the door and leaned against the counter, finally looking tired. But behind that tiredness was something else… care. The kind that didn't need words to explain.

For a second, I thought about how different things would feel for Zara when she came downstairs and saw this. Maybe she'd breathe easier. Maybe it would hurt less.

Maybe.

Rita wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, then gave me a small grin.

"I ordered pizza. Should be here any minute now."

As if the universe had been listening, the doorbell rang.

Rita chuckled. "Speak of the devil. Jonas, could you get that?"

"Yeah, sure."

I headed to the front door, opened it, and was greeted by a young guy in a red cap holding two stacked boxes. The smell hit me instantly, cheese, spice, tomato sauce so fresh my stomach growled on the spot. I paid him quickly, muttered a thanks, and carried the boxes to the dining table.

"Perfect," Rita said, tugging the gloves off her hands completely. "Go call Zara, will you?"

I nodded, wiping my palms against my sweats before heading up the stairs. Her door was shut, soft light leaking from underneath. I knocked twice.

"I'll be there in a sec," came her muffled reply.

I leaned against the doorframe, waiting. A few moments later, the handle clicked, and then the door opened.

And just like that, I forgot how to breathe.

She stood there in an oversized tee that sloped off one shoulder, the hem brushing mid-thigh. Her hair was loose, spilling down her back with one side tucked neatly behind her ear. Her lips glistened, full and soft, gloss catching the light. And the scent… vanilla mixed with coconut, hit me in a wave, warm and sweet and unfairly distracting.

My brain blanked. I knew I shouldn't be looking at her like that right now, but damn. Zara had this way of making the world tilt, of knocking the words straight out of my mouth.

I realized too late that I'd been staring. My throat went dry, and I cleared it, forcing my eyes back up to hers.

"Uh… Rita ordered pizza," I managed, voice lower than I intended. "It just got here. She... uh... wants you to come down and eat."

She smiled faintly, soft and unguarded, and I swore my heart skipped a beat.

Zara gave a small nod and brushed past me, the faint trail of her scent making it even harder to think straight. I followed her downstairs, forcing myself to keep my eyes on the steps instead of the way her bare legs peeked out beneath that oversized tee.

By the time we reached the dining room, Rita had already set the table. She looked up at us, her eyes darting briefly between Zara and me, but she didn't comment. Instead, she pushed a pizza box open, letting the steam and melted cheese spill into the air.

"Dinner is served," she said lightly, sliding into a chair.

Zara sank into the seat beside her, tucking one leg under herself. She looked smaller, calmer somehow, the weight of the day seeming to loosen around her shoulders. I took the spot across from her, still trying to shake the image of her upstairs out of my head.

We dug in quietly at first, slices passed around, napkins grabbed, soda cans cracked open. The first bite hit my stomach like a punch of relief. After days of hospital food and stress, real food… hot, greasy, cheesy, felt like heaven.

Rita was the first to break the silence. "So," she said between bites, "flight's at ten in the morning. We'll leave early, maybe around seven, to avoid any rush."

Zara nodded, chewing slowly. Her eyes flicked to the table, avoiding both of ours. "Okay."

The word was small, but it carried the weight of everything she wasn't saying. Leaving. Starting over. Walking away from this house, from us, from... me.

I tried not to think about it, tried not to let the thought gnaw at me. Instead, I focused on the pizza, on Rita chatting about random things, how clean the place looked now, how she hoped Zara would rest properly tonight. But my gaze kept sliding back to Zara.

Her hair fell forward as she leaned down to take another bite, gloss smudged against the crust, and I felt my chest tighten. She always had this way of making even the smallest moments feel significant. And knowing tomorrow she'd be gone? That stung worse than I wanted to admit.