The knock never came again.
Orla stood frozen at the base of the stairs, heart pounding against ribs that felt too tight, too fragile for the silence that followed. Stanley moved behind her, slow and steady, his warmth brushing her back like the tail end of a dream she didn’t want to end.
But the house said nothing.
No voices.
No footsteps.
Just her breath. His presence. And the weight of too many ghosts pressing down on all the things they hadn’t said.
She turned to him.
“Do you think it’s her?” she whispered.
His hand came up to her jaw, thumb brushing the edge of her cheek. “I don’t care who it is tonight.”
She wanted to believe that. Wanted to lose herself in something real after all the fractures, all the false promises. But her throat clenched with the memory of Leah’s eyes.
