Page 53 of Hollowed

My fingers curled around the spine of the book still cradled in my hands. I stepped forward. Pressed it to his chest. Not to accuse.

To beanswered.

“Then say it,” I whispered. “Say I was never hers.”

His jaw locked. His gaze flicked to my mouth like the words were already there.

And then?—

He leaned in.

Mouth to ear.

Voice like a blade drawn through old parchment:

“You were mine before the fire.”

I didn’t gasp this time.

Iburned.

Not with pain.

With memory.

With truth I had already known but hadn’t dared wear.

I pulled back, just enough to see his eyes.

“Then write me again,” I said. “Not in the ledger.”

I reached for his hand.

Pressed it to the place just below my ribs.

“Write me in you.”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Because I already had.

Night crept into the chapel like breath slipping from between parted lips. It didn’t announce itself. It just filled the space we hadn’t touched. The stone turned colder. The air stilled. And the silence began to feel heavier than it had in days.

He sat across from me now.

Not close. Not far.

He’d lit no candles. Made no fire. And I hadn’t asked.

Somehow, the darkness suited what hovered between us. Not shame. Not guilt. But recognition. Of what we’d taken. Of what had been taken before us. Of the ledger still breathing in the corner like a wound left open too long.

I didn’t sleep. I knew he wouldn’t either.

I pulled the robe tighter around my body, even though it smelled like him. Especially because it smelled like him. It clung to my skin like memory, like ruin. Like a thing I wasn’t supposed to want anymore.

But I did.

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