The next night, the light went out again.
Not because of Renae.
Because the mansion's power to that wing failed, or so the guards said. I didn’t believe them.
No one came.
No one spoke.
No food. No water.
I was drifting again past the edge of reality. Into the places of memory I’d tried to bury.
My mother’s voice in the garden, humming.
The smell of burnt toast on a rainy morning.
Dan’s laughter in the shadows of the old laundry room.
Vincent’s hands. Everywhere. Nowhere.
I cried.
I didn’t know when the tears started. Only that they didn’t stop. And somewhere in the dark, I began to talk aloud—begging someone, anyone, to come.
The walls whispered back.
And then the whispers stopped.
And the door burst open.
Light.
Sound.
Vincent’s silhouette.
He didn’t speak. He just ran
