The carriage wheels rolled steadily over the cobbled path, the journey back to Thornsfield cloaked in a heavy silence.
Eliza sat beside Victor, the quiet stretching longer than it should have. She stole a glance at him—his jaw was tight, eyes fixed out the window, as if the rain-slicked streets held answers he couldn't quite reach.
"So," she said softly, breaking the stillness, "how have you been all these years?"
Victor didn't look at her. He gave a faint nod, exhaling like the question weighed more than it should. "I've been… surviving. Work. Cases. Long nights." He paused, then added with a tired smirk, "Still drink my black coffee without sugar."
Eliza huffed a laugh through her nose. "Still the same old Victor."
He finally turned to her, his eyes dark and unreadable. "And you? After… everything?"
She shrugged, folding her arms. "I learned to stop waiting for people to explain the unexplainable. Started chasing answers myself."
Their eyes met for a moment too long, and the silence returned.
The carriage slowed as it reached the quieter part of Thornsfield.
Victor stepped out first, then turned to offer his hand. Eliza hesitated, then took it, her fingers briefly brushing his. It sent a shiver up her spine—not from cold, but from memory.
"I thought you were dropping me at the inn," she said, a teasing tilt to her head.
He didn't let go of her hand immediately. "You're staying at my place tonight. It's safer. And besides…" He glanced at her with a glint in his eyes, "…Mother would kill me if she found out you were back in Thornsfield and I didn't bring you over."
Eliza blinked. "Your mother? She still lives here?"
"Of course," he said with a small smile. "No one's ever really left this town, have they?"
They walked up the path to a quaint stone cottage, ivy trailing across the porch railings and warm light glowing through the lace-curtained windows. Before Victor could even knock, the door swung open.
"Eliza?" a soft, surprised voice called out.
A kind-faced woman stepped into the lantern light. Her silver hair was pulled back in a neat bun, and her eyes—Victor's eyes—sparkled with familiarity.
"I haven't seen you since you two were fighting over the last apricot tart at the spring festival!" she chuckled.
Eliza smiled, a little stunned. "Mrs. Casello? You still remember that?"
"How could I forget?" his mother said, ushering her inside. "You bit Victor's hand when he tried to take it from you."
Victor muttered, "Still have the scar," under his breath, and Eliza laughed, easing into the warm glow of the house.
Mrs. Casello set out tea before Eliza could protest, and sat with them at the wooden dining table.
"You're thinner than I remember, dear. Are you eating properly?" she asked, fussing as she handed her a cup.
"She forgets," Victor said before Eliza could answer, drawing an eye-roll from her.
Mrs. Casello just smiled knowingly. "You always were wrapped up in books and dusty old stories. Some things never change."
Eliza looked around the house—same old wooden beams, same fireplace. And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, her shoulders dropped just a little.
She was safe. But the storm was still gathering. And in the warmth of Victor's home, with the fire crackling softly and tea warming her palms, the silence said everything.