Chapter 6

Beth couldn't pinpoint exactly when the house had gotten quieter. Not the brittle, walking-on-glass kind of quiet that had settled over them for weeks—sharp and waiting to break—but a quieter kind of quiet. Softer. Warmer. The kind that crept in slowly, unnoticed at first, until she realized no one was slamming cabinets anymore, and the TV wasn't always blaring in the background just to drown out the sound of their disconnection.

It might have been Tuesday. Or Wednesday. The days had begun to stretch and blur again, but not in the same numbing way. More like an exhale.

She was midway through folding Cassie's laundry at the kitchen table, sorting tiny socks with foxes on them and shirts that still held the faint, sweet scent of her daughter's glitter shampoo. The late afternoon sun slanted in through the open kitchen window, warm and gold, carrying in the scent of fresh-cut grass and the low, rhythmic hum of someone mowing a lawn down the block. The breeze was light but steady, fluttering the corner of a coloring page someone had left on the counter days ago.

From down the hall came the dull clink of Henry's toolbox and the occasional muttered curse as he worked on the loose hallway door handle—the one he'd promised to fix "next weekend" for almost six months. But this time, he had. This weekend, without being asked twice. The noise didn't set Beth on edge. It didn't feel like something building toward a blow-up. Just the sound of someone following through. For once, she wasn't keeping count of seconds or holding her breath waiting for the snap. She was just... listening.

Cassie had made herself a nest in the living room, a loose sprawl of throw pillows and scattered picture books, humming to herself in a string of tuneless nonsense while absently nibbling at a long-forgotten apple slice. Every so often, she'd stop mid-verse to consult the pages in front of her, then go right back to singing about unicorns, pancakes, or whatever her brain had stitched together in the last five minutes.

Beth smiled faintly as she folded a pair of leggings printed with tiny stars and set them atop the rest of the stack.

A few moments later, Henry appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a folded rag. His shirt was smudged faintly with dust, his hair mussed in that way it always got when he crouched to work and forgot to run a hand through it afterward.

"Door's fixed," he said, voice casual, almost sheepish. "No more haunted creaking every time the AC kicks on."

Beth glanced up, raising a brow in mock gravity. "So you finally exorcised the hallway ghost?"

He snorted quietly, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "Three washers, one YouTube tutorial, and a mild existential crisis later—yeah. Banished."

"Impressive," she said, the word carrying more warmth than it might have a week ago. She didn't stand, didn't close the distance between them. But her smile stayed. That was something.

Henry nodded toward the laundry basket still half-full on the chair beside her. "Want me to take that upstairs?"

Beth paused for a moment, weighing the offer like it might shift if she held it too long. Then she nodded, gently pulling the top layer of folded clothes into a neater stack and pressing them into Henry's waiting hands.

"Just Cassie's stuff," she said, her voice quiet but sure. "Mine can wait."

He didn't make a show of it. Didn't perform gratitude or offer some overcompensating smile. He simply took the basket, fingers brushing against hers in a way that felt light and unburdened—no pressure, no apology tucked inside it. Just a brief, honest contact.

"Cool," he said, adjusting the weight of the basket against his hip. "She's building a fort up there. I'll distract her for a bit. Give you a second to breathe."

Beth nodded again and reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes softening with something like relief. "Thanks," she murmured, barely above the hum of the quiet house.

He turned and started up the stairs, barefoot and measured, the soft creak of the wood beneath him a familiar rhythm that didn't make her wince. Beth didn't look away right away. She stood in the kitchen doorway and watched him go—not with suspicion or resignation, but with a kind of muted stillness that felt earned. She didn't flinch. She didn't brace. She just... watched.

The kettle began to whistle behind her, low at first, then rising into a high, lonely call. Beth turned toward it, clicked it off with a practiced hand, and moved on autopilot to fix herself a cup of tea. Not coffee—she didn't want the edge—but chamomile, steeped until golden, with just enough honey to take off the bitterness.

She sat down at the kitchen table and wrapped both hands around the mug, grounding herself in the warmth. Steam curled up past her face, softening the space around her as she leaned in. Through the open window, the breeze fluttered the edge of a recipe card someone had magneted to the fridge months ago and never used. From upstairs came the muffled thump of footsteps and the sharp, delighted squeal of Cassie's voice. Henry's deeper voice answered her with some kind of exaggerated gasp—something about a dragon blanket trap—and Beth could hear the way he was playing along, really playing, the way he used to before everything got so sharp around the edges.

It had been like this the last few days.

Henry showing up. Not perfectly, not with grand gestures, but with intention. He made sandwiches at lunchtime and rinsed out the pan afterward. He took out the trash without being asked. He kept his voice low when Cassie was tired and left his phone on the counter when Beth was trying to talk. He didn't push. He didn't posture. But he was there.

And he wasn't trying too hard—wasn't overcorrecting, overexplaining, or narrating every effort like he wanted credit for it.

But he was trying.

Beth hadn't let herself sink into it yet. Not all the way. There were still too many cracks under the surface, too many nights she'd stayed quiet out of habit, too many memories she hadn't decided what to do with. But she noticed. She always noticed.

He texted her during the day now. Nothing elaborate. A picture of one of Cassie's crumpled drawings he found wedged between the seats in the car. A "thinking of you" text with a little sun emoji. Once, a string of three emojis—a bear, a heart, and a coffee cup—that took her a second to interpret. When she did, she'd stared at it for a long time before replying with a single brown heart.

She hadn't said "I forgive you." Because she hadn't. Not all the way. But she'd said "thank you." She'd said "yes" when he offered to do the dishes. She'd said "I missed this," with her hands and her mouth and the way she hadn't pulled away when he kissed her in the kitchen.

They were rebuilding—not from the ground up, not with clean slates or shiny blueprints, but with the parts that hadn't completely crumbled. The beams that still held, even after everything. The corners that hadn't rotted through. The quiet, unsplintered places that had bent beneath the weight but never quite broken.

Her phone buzzed across the wood of the table, the soft vibration echoing like an aftershock in the still room. The screen lit up.

ALEX : You alive? I haven't heard from you in like six days.

Beth stared at the message, thumb hovering over the screen, the steam from her tea curling lazily upward, unnoticed. Her reflection blinked back at her from the glass—hair pulled into a half-finished braid, sleeves pushed up on an old hoodie that didn't match her joggers, face bare and shadowed beneath the eyes. She looked like someone halfway between rest and retreat. Like someone surviving.

Alex always texted like she kicked down doors. No lead-up, no easing in. Just one sharp sentence straight to the ribs. There was comfort in that kind of directness. It meant Beth didn't have to fake anything. Alex would accept whatever version of the truth she gave, and never demand more than Beth could offer.

Beth sipped her tea—still too hot, still carrying that faint, bitter sweetness she hadn't decided if she liked. She drank it anyway. It felt like something a functioning person might do. Like self-care. Like progress.

Her thumbs tapped the screen.

BETH : Sorry, yeah. Things have been... busy. Cassie's on a slime bender and I'm knee-deep in glitter and VA spreadsheets. You know. The usual circus.

The typing dots blinked into life instantly, like Alex had been waiting on the other end with the screen already open.

ALEX : You okay though?

Beth hesitated, her fingers curling tighter around the warm ceramic of her mug. She could've said so many things. Could've told her about the silence, about the mornings she couldn't bring herself to speak, about the fights that didn't end but just paused like ticking bombs. She could've talked about crying in the laundry room, about the breakfast tray, about Henry folding socks and fixing the hallway door and kissing her like he still knew who she was.

But she didn't.

Not because she didn't trust Alex—she did, implicitly. But because naming those things out loud might give them weight too soon, before she was ready to carry them outside her own skin. And because Alex already had enough gravity of her own. Enough pain to carry without Beth adding more to the pile.

She typed slowly.

BETH : Yeah. Just tired. But okay.

Another pause. Then the dots again.

ALEX : Okay. You sure?

Beth smiled faintly, thumb drumming against the side of her mug. There was warmth behind the question. Not pressure—just proof that someone still noticed when she disappeared.

BETH : Promise.

Alex responded with a single side-eye emoji, followed by:

ALEX : Fine. But next time I call and you don't answer, I'm flying back there and kicking your ass. Gently. Out of love.

Beth let out a soft laugh—quiet, but real. She could hear the cadence in Alex's voice as if it were coming through the phone itself. That dry, affectionate blend of sarcasm and sincerity only Alex could manage, like she'd been fluent in both since childhood.

BETH : Noted. Love you, nerd.

ALEX : Love you more, grump.

Beth locked the screen and turned the phone face-down on the table. Her smile lingered for a beat, then faded into something softer. Not sadness. Not exactly. Just a quieter kind of weight. The kind that came when your heart was still healing, but your hands had stopped bracing for the fall.

The stairs creaked behind her.

Cassie's voice followed, full of theatrical stage whispering and barely contained glee. " I'm not tired, but I'm gonna lie down for one minute with all the pillows. "

Beth turned just in time to see Henry appear in the kitchen doorway, a crooked paper crown dangling from one hand and a smear of purple marker stretching across his cheek like war paint drawn by a four-year-old with poor aim and too much authority. His shirt was rumpled, his socks mismatched, and there was something about the slope of his shoulders—relaxed, unguarded—that made her chest ache in a way that didn't hurt.

"She declared herself Queen of Naps," he said, tipping his head toward the hallway like the sovereign in question might still be listening. "Then immediately passed out mid-sentence. Something about all the pillows being royal property."

Beth let the corner of her mouth lift. Not just a reflex, but a real smile—quiet and small and edged with something gentler than she'd worn in weeks. She nudged her mug aside, folded her arms loosely across her chest, and tilted her head. "Sounds about right."

Henry crossed the kitchen slowly, the soles of his feet soft against the tile, and set the crown down beside her on the counter as if it were something sacred. He didn't hover. Didn't pace or brace or wait for direction like he used to when the air between them was thinner. He just stood there, eyes on her—not cautious, not defensive. Just watching, the way someone looks when they've stopped hoping for the right moment and decided to make space in whatever one they're given.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low.

Beth didn't answer immediately. She studied him, noting the way his hair curled damply at the nape of his neck, the faint crease between his brows that never quite disappeared when he was thinking too hard. She looked long enough to know the question wasn't empty. It wasn't posturing or obligation or something he'd rehearsed. It was just honest. And for the first time in a long while, she didn't feel the need to armor up before responding.

She nodded—once, slow, like the motion itself carried weight.

"Yeah," she said. "Come here."

Henry didn't need coaxing. He didn't second-guess the invitation or tread carefully like someone approaching old wreckage. He moved without hesitation, pulling out the chair beside her and sinking into it with the kind of ease that didn't ask for permission. He sat close—close enough for warmth, not suffocation—and laid his hand on the table like a quiet offering.

Beth reached out. Their fingers brushed. Then twined.

She looked down at the shape of their hands—hers smaller, nails chipped, knuckles dry; his broader, calloused at the tips, thumb already moving in slow, instinctive circles along the inside of her palm. It wasn't a grand gesture. It wasn't loud. It just... was.

Something inside her let go.

"I was waiting for the other shoe to drop," she murmured, eyes still fixed on their hands.

Henry didn't pretend not to know what she meant. "Still waiting?"

Beth inhaled through her nose, the breath soft and clean, then exhaled slowly like she needed to feel it leave her. "Not as much."

The silence that settled between them wasn't strained or heavy. It was the kind of stillness that had space in it. Space to rest. Space to breathe. The hum of the refrigerator mingled with the gentle creak of the wind moving past the gutters, and somewhere outside, a bird trilled once before falling quiet again. Upstairs, the house stayed still. Cassie didn't stir. The whole place seemed to be holding its breath—content, for the moment, to let them exist like this.

"I didn't tell Alex," Beth said after a long pause. Her voice was softer now, a little worn at the edges, but steady.

Henry turned his head toward her, eyes searching. "About us?"

Beth nodded once.

He didn't speak right away. His gaze dropped to their hands again, his thumb pausing mid-circle, then resuming like a clock ticking through thought.

"Why not?" Henry asked, his voice quiet, more curious than accusatory.

Beth exhaled through her nose, her shoulders lifting with a slow shrug that barely crested her collarbones. "Because I didn't want to make it real," she said, the words not rushed but sifted carefully, like she was tasting them before committing. "And I didn't want to make her carry it, either. She's already got so much going on. Half a world away, trying to be everything to everyone. She doesn't need my mess on top of hers."

He didn't respond immediately. His jaw shifted, muscle ticking slightly at the hinge, like he was working through something he didn't know how to say yet. The silence between them stretched just long enough to start tugging at the edges before he nodded, slow and considered.

"She'd want to know," he said finally.

"I know," Beth murmured.

"But I get it."

The quiet that followed wasn't stiff or strained. It was just honest—like they were both finally sitting in the same room with the same truth and not trying to dress it up as something more digestible. Beth turned toward him more fully, her body angling in a way that felt less like defense and more like surrender. Her eyes were softer than they had been in weeks—not tentative, not afraid. Just tired. Honest.

"It's not because I was ashamed of you," she said, her voice low but clear, every syllable rooted in something she hadn't let herself say out loud until now.

Henry lifted his gaze, and this time, he really saw her. No filter of guilt or ego or defensiveness. Just Beth. Sitting three feet away, holding his hand, telling the truth.

"It was because I was scared it meant we were really breaking," she continued. Her words were slow, measured, like they'd been buried somewhere deep in her chest for months and were finally surfacing, half-wet with grief and half-lit with relief. "And I didn't want to write the eulogy before we'd even tried."

His fingers tightened around hers—not a squeeze, not a plea, just a steadying pressure that said he was still here. Still listening.

"You were never the problem," he said, his voice quiet and a little raw at the edges.

Beth arched a brow, not challenging but questioning. "I wasn't perfect."

"Neither was I," he replied. "But you never made me feel like less than. I just... I let myself become less. I stopped fighting for the version of me you saw. I don't want to do that again."

She leaned her head back against the chair and let her eyes fall closed for a beat, letting the hum of the room fill the space where words had thinned. The warmth of his hand in hers pulsed like something steady and alive, and for the first time in longer than she wanted to admit, it didn't feel like she was bracing for loss. It felt like something settling.

"No big speeches," she said quietly, not opening her eyes.

"No promises," Henry agreed, his voice gentler now, lips curling at the corners.

Beth cracked one eye open and let it drift sideways to him, her voice low but steady. "But keep fixing things."

Henry let out a half-laugh, soft and unforced, his thumb tracing a slow arc along the inside of her knuckles like he was mapping her pulse. "I plan to."

"And take out the trash," she added, shifting just enough to bump his leg with hers under the table.

He nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching. "And answer my damn phone."

Her lips curved, not quite a grin, but warmer than it had been in weeks. "And use real creamer."

Henry gave her a look of mock offense before cracking a wider smile—the kind that softened the lines around his mouth and made him look younger. "I'm evolving," he said, like it was both a joke and a truth.

Beth didn't laugh, but her smile lingered, catching in the quiet like sunlight through glass. There was something behind it—something small and flickering. Not quite relief. Not quite hope. But close. Her eyes shifted toward the window, drawn by the movement of the curtains. The breeze had changed direction, curling through the house with the faint scent of cut grass and distant woodsmoke. Somewhere in the neighborhood, someone was grilling—the kind of backyard rhythm that came with dogs underfoot, radio on low, and bare feet on a sun-warmed deck.

The light had changed too. Late-afternoon gold had taken over, casting everything in a soft, forgiving hush. The kind of light that made even worn wood and scuffed linoleum look like something worth staying in.

Henry leaned his elbow on the table, body loose now, voice gentler. "How's Alex these days?"

Beth didn't answer immediately.

She let her gaze rest on the curtain, the way the breeze lifted and dropped its hem in slow waves. The sun caught the fabric just right, turning it almost translucent. Like something private suddenly visible. She rolled her mug between her palms, feeling the warmth seep into her fingers. A pause. A breath.

"She's..." Beth tilted her head slightly, the movement as much about memory as it was about forming the words. The corner of her mouth lifted—not into a smile, not quite—but into something quieter. Something more fragile. "She's in Korea."

Henry blinked, clearly caught off guard. His brow furrowed as he leaned in slightly. "What?"

Beth's mouth curved a little further, the shape of it touched by something dry and wry. "She took a contract. Private security. For a K-pop group, of all things. Big name, apparently. The kind with stadium tours and choreographed interviews."

Henry blinked again, slower this time. The disbelief softened into something more thoughtful. "Seriously?"

"Yeah," Beth said, voice dipping toward fondness without quite touching it. "Says it's strange—crowd control, tight schedules, a lot of polished chaos. But she likes it. Says she's sleeping better. Eating real food. Not dreaming about sand or blood or the wrong name on a casualty report."

Henry nodded, slow and quiet, his jaw shifting the way it always did when he was working through someone else's story like a blueprint. His eyes dropped to the grain of the table, where Beth's tea had left a faint ring. "That's good," he said, his voice soft. Steady.

Beth nodded, more to herself than to him. "It is. She needed the distance. A new rhythm. A place that didn't whisper David's name every time she opened a drawer."

She lifted her mug, sipped what was left of her tea—it had gone lukewarm while they talked, but she drank it anyway. The bitter edge settled on her tongue like punctuation.

"You ever think she'll come back?" Henry asked, and his voice had shifted—lower, gentler. Like the question itself was something fragile he wasn't sure he was allowed to ask.

Beth didn't answer immediately.

Her gaze moved past him to the window, where the backyard maple swayed in slow, deliberate arcs. Its branches cast long, restless shadows on the fence. The light outside had shifted again—amber now, laced with gold, like the day couldn't quite decide how to end.

"She will," Beth said eventually, voice steady but worn. "Not because she wants to. But because one day, something will happen—someone will get sick, or hurt, or worse—and she'll feel like she has to."

Henry turned to her fully now, eyes searching. "And if she just wants to?" he asked. "If she wakes up one morning and realizes she misses home?"

Beth's throat tightened. Her fingers shifted on the mug.

"She won't admit it," she said. "She'll say she's bored. Or tired. Or needs a break. She'll blame the contract. Or the hours. Or the rain. Anything but missing. Anything but grief."

Henry nodded once, slowly. "She still won't let herself grieve."

"No," Beth murmured. "Not really. David was her everything. Her first kiss. Her first everything. She gave up her dreams for him."

Her fingers curled more tightly around the mug, the ceramic cooling rapidly beneath her palms. She didn't look up.

"She was supposed to be on a stage," she said, the words careful, reverent. "Not on patrol."

Henry didn't interrupt. He just watched her, silent and still, like he understood that what she was saying wasn't just about Alex. Not anymore.

"She got into a master's program for music education," Beth continued. "Piano performance. Full ride. First in her class. She deferred for a semester when David got sick. Then again. And then it just... stopped being the plan."

She blinked, slow and heavy, her gaze settling on the pale watermark her mug had left behind.

"She was already trying to carry him. Carry their future. Carry the weight of everything that diagnosis meant. Then the miscarriage happened. The bills kept coming. The debt stacked up."

She swallowed, her voice threading thinner.

"She enlisted a month after the doctor said the word terminal."

Henry's breath left him in a low, sandpaper rasp, like it had scraped its way through his chest on the way out. "Jesus."

Beth didn't nod. Didn't speak. She just let the silence take up space—thick and full and necessary. It settled between them like shared gravity, anchoring them both in the weight of what had just been said. It wasn't awkward. It didn't demand to be filled. It just was. The kind of silence that carried its own kind of reverence.

She lifted her mug again out of habit more than want, the ceramic cool against her palms. The tea inside had gone flat and cold, but she drank it anyway, the bitterness grounding.

"She couldn't even come home for the funeral," Beth said eventually, her voice quieter now. Measured. Careful. Like if she wasn't, it might crack under its own weight. "She was still recovering from surgery. Ruptured eardrum. Shrapnel in her hip. They kept her in Germany. Wouldn't clear her for travel. So they sent someone else to the burial. A stranger with a folded flag and a prewritten note."

Henry's gaze dropped to the table. His voice came out low. "She didn't even get to say goodbye."

Beth shook her head slowly. "He called the night before. Video. She said he looked like he was already halfway gone. Eyes glassy. Skin gray. He couldn't say much—just whispered her name and tried to smile. She said she held it together until the call ended, and then she sobbed so hard she tore the stitches in her side."

Henry winced, his jaw tightening in quiet sympathy.

Beth could still see it—Alex slumped on her couch days later, pale and quiet, her whole body stitched together with stubbornness and too many painkillers. She'd moved like glass. Spoken like she was underwater. Flinched at every beep, every clang from the microwave or drop of silverware. Beth had watched her sit up at night, eyes open, unfocused, like she was waiting for someone who wasn't coming home.

"She came back six months later," Beth continued. "Stayed with me for a while. Sold the house. Donated most of his stuff. Burned the rest. She packed up their marriage like it was evidence in a box and never looked back. She didn't cry. Not once."

Henry didn't say anything. Just sat still, listening. His hands curled loosely on the table, knuckles pale, but he didn't interrupt.

"She used to sing," Beth said suddenly, her voice catching on the words like a sleeve snagged on a nail. "God, Henry—she sang. She had this voice that made people stop in the hallway. Even when she was just humming to herself. She used to light up every room she walked into."

She looked down at her own hands, fists clenched around the edge of the table, her knuckles tight with the ache of memory.

"She hasn't touched a piano since the day he died."

Henry reached out, slow and deliberate, his hand warm as it settled over hers. He didn't squeeze. Just held it. Just gave her something to feel besides the sharp edges of loss she was trying not to pick open.

"She lost everything," Beth murmured. "And instead of breaking down, she disappeared. She left everything she'd built behind and moved to a country where no one knew her name. Where no one looked at her like she used to be somebody."

They sat in that silence again—different now. Not heavy. Not weighted with tension or restraint. Just solemn. Like pews after the final hymn, when the last echo of sound has faded but no one wants to be the first to stand. The kind of silence that doesn't demand speech or comfort. The kind that gives you space to breathe, to feel, to remember.

Then Beth's phone buzzed again.

It rattled gently across the table's wood grain, screen lighting up with a soft glow that broke the quiet like a whisper through a sleeping house. She didn't reach for it right away. Just stared as the notification slid across the screen—a new video message from Alex.

Henry tilted his head, one brow arching as he leaned a little closer. "Speak of the devil."

Beth didn't smile. Didn't answer. She simply swiped to unlock the phone, thumb steady despite the sudden thrum in her chest, and tapped play.

The video opened on a small room, dim but golden with evening light. There were no stage lights. No polished decor. Just the outline of sheer curtains fluttering at a cracked window, and a cheap digital keyboard resting against the wall. The kind of keyboard you buy secondhand. The kind you keep because it's enough. Because it gets the job done.

Beth's breath caught.

The room wasn't familiar. Not really. A rental, maybe. Temporary housing. It had that feel—gently used, impersonal in its bones but softened by the presence of someone trying to make it theirs. A corner carved out for something private. Sacred.

Alex stepped into the frame without fanfare. Barefoot. Hair swept into a half-hearted bun, a few loose strands curling against her jaw. Her sleeves were shoved past her elbows. Her expression was unreadable, her gaze not on the camera but somewhere off to the side, like she was listening for something only she could hear.

She sat down at the keyboard slowly. No ceremony. No flourish. Just motion. Her hands hovered above the keys for a long moment, fingers twitching like they were reaching across time.

Then, finally, she began to play.

The sound was soft. Tentative. The kind of melody that felt like an echo from another life. The first few notes faltered, uneven and fragile, like a voice breaking after too long held silent. But she didn't stop. The music found its footing, slow and careful, built from memory more than muscle.

Beth's spine went rigid, her heart tripping over itself. She knew that melody. Knew it from bunk beds and borrowed earbuds, from late nights in dusty practice rooms and sunlit dorms with the door half-shut. It was the one Alex used to hum when she didn't know she was doing it. The one she'd always turn to when the world felt too loud.

And then—quietly, almost too softly to catch—Alex began to sing.

Beth's hand came up to her mouth without thinking.

The voice wasn't what it used to be. It was rawer now. Strained in places. Laced with gravel at the edges, like emotion had settled into her vocal cords and never quite left. But it was hers. Alex's. Achingly familiar. Still threaded through with that clear, aching honesty that had always made people stop and listen.

She cracked in the middle of a phrase. Just once. But she didn't stop. She didn't look up. Her eyes stayed down, fixed on the keys like they were the only anchor she had. She wasn't performing. She wasn't showcasing. She was remembering. Unburying. Reclaiming.

For a single verse—for the space of a minute and a half—Alex was someone else again. Or maybe just more herself than she'd allowed herself to be in years.

When the final chord faded, she didn't move right away. Her fingers drifted from the keys, resting limp on her knees as the silence returned—not empty this time, but full. Full of breath and memory and the impossible weight of what it meant to feel something again.

The frame shifted. Alex leaned forward, reaching for the phone, her face still out of view.

Just before the video cut to black, her voice came through—barely audible, frayed at the edges.

"I thought I'd forgotten how."

Beth sat perfectly still.

The screen went dark.

Henry leaned closer, his voice low and reverent, just above the hum of the fridge. "Was that...?"

Beth nodded once. The motion felt slow. Heavy. Her eyes were still locked on the screen like it might replay without being asked.

"Yeah," she whispered. "It was."

Henry exhaled. "She's playing again."

Beth didn't speak. Couldn't. Her throat had closed around something sharp and quiet. Her fingers trembled faintly around the edges of the phone, the glass cool beneath her skin.

She didn't know where the keyboard had come from. Didn't know who had given her the space or the privacy. The room was unfamiliar. There were no clues, no context. Just light and linen and that quiet sense of fragile hope.

But the music—that had been unmistakable.

Still, Beth didn't let herself hope too hard. Not fully. Because she knew too well that healing didn't follow straight lines. That music didn't mean recovery. That a single song wasn't the same as coming home.

But it was something.

A note in the dark.

And maybe—just maybe—a piece of Alex reaching back across oceans and silence and grief. Reaching toward the girl she used to be before the pain. Before the loss. Before the stillness.