Page 112 of The Yoga Teacher

“Okay,” she said finally.

It was all she could manage.

“Just—if you ever want to come back to it… the house is there. For you.”

Not for them.

Not for hope.

Just for her.

She closed her eyes. The ache behind them was sudden, thick.

“Goodbye, Daniel.”

He didn’t say it back.

Just the soft click of the line going dead.

She stood there in the quiet, the phone still pressed to her ear, her skin cooling under the weight of the air.

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She didn’t make a plan.

She just packed her car the next morning.

She drove with the windows down, the air sharp against her face, trying to stay in her body. Trying not to spiral.

It wasn’t about forgiving him.

It wasn’t even about claiming some symbolic victory.

It was about space. Her space. Her name on the deed.

When she pulled into the driveway, the house looked quiet. Still. The porch light was off now, and the curtains were open. No car in the driveway. Just... emptiness.

He was gone.

She stood in the doorway for a full minute before unlocking it. The weight of the key in her hand felt strange now. Familiar but unfamiliar—like trying on clothes from another life.

When the door swung open, the smell hit her.

Clean floors. Lemon polish. A faint trace of rosemary from the garden out back. The house didn’t feel haunted anymore.

It felt waiting.

Her feet carried her forward before her mind could catch up. The kitchen was just as she remembered it—the mug cabinet half empty.

She set a box on the counter. Then another.

Upstairs, she walked slowly into what had been their bedroom. Her bedroom now. His half of the closet was empty.

Hannah sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers curling loosely around the comforter. This was hers now. Legally. Officially. Unquestionably.

She wandered room by room that afternoon—opening windows, putting music on her phone to echo through the space like life had returned. She ate dinner at the table, a sandwich and a glass of wine.

The sun dipped low, washing the living room in amber.

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