Page 17 of Let Me In

I keep splitting wood until the blade catches at the wrong angle and bites deeper than I meant. I leave it in the stump and stand still, chest rising slow. The image of her lingers: those wide, uncertain eyes, the slight tremble in her fingers, the way she held herself like no one ever had her back.

Splitting wood helped for a moment. A rhythm. A release. But now the quiet wraps back around me, and it presses into the space she left—sharp as breath in cold air, hollow in all the ways she isn’t. The ache doesn’t dull. It only roots deeper.

Not angry. Just full.

Of what, I’m not ready to say.

I glance toward the edge of the ridge. The trail that runs past the back of the cabin. I wonder if I’ll hear her pass again soon.

I hope so.

Hope’s soft. Doesn’t belong in a place like this, with a man like me. But I let it sit a while anyway.

And I leave the mug she drank from on the counter.

Unwashed.

7

EMMY

I don’t go inside right away.

The driveway is quiet again. The gravel settling. The air still holds the shape of his car, even though it’s long gone. The sun’s dropped behind the tree line, casting the yard in that soft, late-day hush where everything feels heavier and more honest.

Evening air clings cool against my neck as I stand in the fading light, the paper still in my hand.

It’s not large. Just a scrap. A corner torn from something else. But his handwriting is steady. Bold. Just a number. No name. But it doesn’t need one.

He gave it to me like it meant nothing.

Like it meant everything.

My breath caught, just for a second. Because it wasn’t habit. It comes from care, from intention. It stirred something in me I wasn’t ready for—a fragile, dangerous kind of hope. And the ache that followed, quiet and familiar, reminded me why I don’t usually let myself hope at all.

He didn’t ask for mine. Didn’t hold out his phone and wait. Didn’t tell me to call.

He just handed it to me.

And somehow, that makes it feel more real. Like the choice is mine. Like I’m not just allowed to reach out, but trusted to.

But I won’t. I already know that.

Not because I don’t want to.

Because I don’t want to take up more space than I’m allowed. Don’t want to tip the balance by needing too much. I’ve learned what happens when I ask for things, how quickly discomfort turns into disdain. I don’t want to ruin the quiet thing that passed between us by needing anything more.

He probably did it just to be nice. A safety net. A contingency.

Call me if you’re in trouble.

Not:Call me if you just want to hear my voice.

But God, how I want that to be the reason. Just to hear him—low and steady, grounding me with a single word. The thought makes my throat ache. Because I don't know what it would be like to be missed like that. To be the reason someone listens for the phone.

I press the paper between my fingers before slipping it into the pocket of my jacket, quiet and careful, like it means more than I can say.

Warm against my side. Quiet. Like a secret I’m not ready to share.

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