Page 103 of Let Me In

Their travel bowls. A bag of kibble from the laundry room.

I almost forget my charger.

Then I almost forget my pillow.

Because for some reason, that matters. Maybe because it’s the one soft thing in this house that’s mine. Something that’sheld me on the nights I couldn’t hold myself. Something no one ever took from me—until now, when I’m choosing to give it away.

I glance around once more, like I’m forgetting something.

But I’m not. Because everything that matters?

It’s already waiting for me.

The house creaks behind me. The TV still buzzes through the wall, the sound of a glass clinking too loudly against the counter. My father’s voice is quieter now, but still there. Always there.

I glance at the window, just once. But just in time to see headlights cutting across the trees.

And my breath stills. Not from fear. No, from bone-deep relief.

Because he came.

He always said he would.

And now he’s here.

The duffle’s not heavy. Maybe it should be… but it feels like it holds only what I need. No more. No less.

The dogs are already at the door when I come down the stairs, tails swaying low, like they know not to bark. Like they know this is sacred somehow. Like even they can feel the air shift—something quiet and reverent threading through the dark.

I don’t pause.

Don’t leave a note.

Just ease open the door and step outside.

The wind hits my face first—cool, salt-tinged. The sky overhead is layered in cloud, soft and low, but not storming.

Not tonight.

The porch creaks beneath my feet.

And then I see him.

Cal.

Standing just beyond the steps.

No hesitation.

No hurry.

Just waiting.

The truck is idling behind him, headlights still on, washing the gravel in pale gold. The driver’s door open. The world held between us.

He’s in black again.

Jacket unzipped, hands loose at his sides.

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