Amy stood in her grandmother's room — her room now — with the closet doors open and half-unpacked boxes waiting like soldiers on the floor.
She moved quietly, deliberately.
First the clothes. Folded sweaters. Practical jackets. Soft sleep shirts she never admitted were her favorites. Her old uniform — too small now, but folded with care. She hung everything in the wide cedar-lined closet, filling the space piece by piece.
Then came the boots. Her gloves. The small jewelry box that once belonged to her grandmother, now tucked gently onto the shelf above the hanging rack.
It wasn't decorating.
It was returning.
When she finished, she stood in the center of the room and let her fingers rest on the top of one closed drawer.
She breathed.
The mansion was hers now — hers to prepare, to protect, to build into something more than memory. It was quiet, but not hollow. It welcomed her like a story waiting to be rewritten.
And she was ready.
…
She closed the closet with a soft click.
The last drawer slid into place. Everything was where it should be.
Amy stood still for a moment, her hand resting against the wood. The room smelled faintly of cedar and age — and something else beneath it, something older. Memory, maybe.
She pulled out her phone, intending to check the time, but the screen lit up with a notification first.
[Sara Veylan]: Hey. Hope I'm not bothering you.
Amy blinked.
Her fingers hovered over the screen.
She tapped back.
[Amy]: Not at all. Hi.
A pause.
Then:
[Sara Veylan]: I've been thinking about our date.
Amy's pulse stuttered, but she stayed still.
[Sara Veylan]: I realized I know almost nothing about you. That feels… wrong.
Amy sat on the edge of the bed, the phone resting on her palm. Sara's next message arrived before she could type a reply.
[Sara Veylan]: So, I was wondering… can I ask you things? Nothing heavy. Just… real.
[Amy]: You can ask anything. I'll answer what I can.
There was a pause, then:
[Sara Veylan]: What was your week like? After the date, I mean. You disappeared.
Amy glanced toward the window. Outside, the trees shifted in the breeze.
She typed slowly.
[Amy]: It's been… full. Quiet, but full. I've been moving out of my apartment. I live here now.
[Sara Veylan]: Oh. Big change?
[Amy]: Yeah. I had been putting it off. But it was time.
[Sara Veylan]: Why now?
Amy stared at the message for a moment.
Then she typed:
[Amy]: My grandmother raised me. She passed away last year, and I couldn't face this place until now.
There was a long pause.
Then:
[Sara Veylan]: I'm sorry. That must have been hard.
[Amy]: It was. She was everything. The only one who never left.
Sara's reply came slowly.
[Sara Veylan]: I think I understand. My parents are here, but… it's complicated. Sometimes I feel more seen by people who barely know me than by the ones who do.
Amy stared at those words.
She almost said 'me too'. But stopped.
Instead:
[Amy]: She owned a company. I only recently found that out. She kept things from me. Not cruelly. Just… so I could grow up without all the noise.
[Sara Veylan]: That sounds like love.
Amy smiled faintly.
[Amy]: It was.
There was a beat of quiet.
Then Sara sent:
[Sara Veylan]: You're hard to read, you know. But when you say things like that… I feel like I'm seeing something real.
Amy hesitated.
Then:
[Amy]: I'm still learning how to be real with people. But you're making it easier.
She could imagine Sara smiling at that. The thought settled something low in her chest.
Sara didn't ask about the company name.
Amy didn't offer it.
They left it there — not closed, just... paused.
Not everything had to be said yet.
For now, this was enough.