I didn't look back as I climbed the stairs again—my stride harder, sharper this time.
I didn't slow when I reached the bedroom door.
My chest tightened.
The bed was empty.
The blanket was folded. Her ridiculous ghost dress was gone.
No.
A flicker of irrational panic gripped me, fast and hot—before the bathroom door opened.
And she stepped out.
Wrapped in one of my towels, steam curling around her like a veil. Water glistened on her collarbone, her hair damp and curling at the edges.
Everything else vanished.
She froze when she saw me. Eyes wide, caught mid-step like I'd walked in on her committing a sin — or about to.
"Oh," she said, breath catching just slightly. "You're back."
Back.
As if I hadn't been aching to get here the entire time. As if I hadn't nearly torn the house apart getting rid of Clara so I could return to this exact moment.
I didn't answer. Not right away. Just closed the door behind me, slow and deliberate. The click echoed like a lock being thrown.
