Emily looked up at me from the floor of my living room. I watched the shame and exhaustion move across her face in real time. “I am so sorry, Mason. She slipped out while I was in the bathroom. I didn’t even know she was gone until—”
“It’s fine,” I said. “She’s okay.”
I handed them a second blanket. Made them come inside while Lily stopped shaking. Emily kept apologizing in that low, frantic voice people use when they’re one bad moment away from breaking completely. I kept telling her it was fine. And it was.
But as I watched Lily — wrapped in my blanket on my couch, slowly warming up, her eyes finally getting heavy — I felt something move in my chest that I hadn’t felt in three years.
Something that felt uncomfortably like purpose.
Before they left, Emily stopped at the door with Lily half-asleep on her shoulder. She looked at me for a long moment.
“Can I come by in the morning?” she said quietly. “I think I owe you an explanation.”
I nodded.
She left. The house went silent again.
But this time, the silence felt different.
