Page 108 of The Yoga Teacher

“Was there… a note? From the sender?” she asked, voice tight.

“No,” the agent said simply. “Just instructions to complete the transfer and ensure you were the sole name on the deed.”

Hannah hung up without thanking her.

Her hands were shaking.

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Hannah sat at the edge of her couch, the letter spread open on the coffee table in front of her. She hadn’t moved in ten minutes. Her phone lay face down beside her. She didn’t need a screen right now. Just breath. Stillness.

The mortgage—gone. The house in her name.

No strings.

Just… the facts. The cold, administrative clarity of ownership. Hers.

She could feel her pulse in her throat.

At first, the disbelief made her laugh. A short, sharp sound that felt too loud in the quiet apartment. Because how absurd was it?

For a second, she wondered if it was a trick.

A ploy. A guilt-lever. A power move in the gentlest disguise.

Her eyes skimmed the page again.

$0.00.

He hadn’t just given her the house. He’d paid for it. Every last cent. Cleared the balance. Closed the loop.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands. A slow burn rose behind her eyes.

This wasn’t a gesture meant to win her back. It was a closed door. A bowed head. A man stepping aside. And that hit harder than any apology ever could.

This kind of gesture didn't come from hope.

It came from grief.

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She didn’t mean to drive there.

When she turned onto their street, something in her chest pulled taut.

The porch light was on.

The soft amber glow spilled across the front steps. Familiar. Unchanged.

Hannah stayed in her car, parked at the curb.

The engine was off. The windows were up. And still, she could feel him inside.

Daniel hadn’t left yet. Hadn’t packed a bag or disappeared or done anything dramatic.

He had simply… handed it over.

No fanfare. No guilt trip. Not even a note.

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