Page 171 of Let Me In

The clock reads just after five. The fire’s burned down to soft embers. The sky outside is the color of slate—just before dawn.

And I’m alone.

My hand reaches instinctively for where he was, where his chest held me through the quiet. But all I find is warmth fading into cool.

No heartbeat, no breath. Just me.

The loneliness scrapes through my whole being, hollow and loud, and the quilt slumps from my shoulders.

His flannel shirt hangs loose on my frame, the sleeves trailing past my fingers. The fabric is soft with wear, brushing againstmy skin like the memory of his touch—warm, familiar, too big in all the ways that make me feel small and his.

He didn’t wake me, didn’t say goodbye. Just left like he said he would.

Just for a while, he said.

But my chest tightens anyway.

Because even though I knew—even though he told me—nothing prepared me for how empty the house would feel without him in it. Like something essential slipped out with him—leaving the space too still, too sharp around the edges.

I pace to the stove, poke at the logs.

The dogs are still asleep, peaceful and unaware. I envy them.

I check the clock. It’s past five. He’s been gone a long time, all night.

I pull his flannel tighter around me and cross to the window to push the curtain aside.

Nothing. Not yet.

I whisper it like a prayer.

Please come back.

I press my hand to the frame and wait. The minutes stretch thin. And just when I feel like I might come apart—

Headlights.

Soft. Familiar. No rush.

His truck.

My eyes fly to the door and I rush toward it, but I stop. Just barely. Because if I open it now, I’ll run to him barefoot, wrapped in nothing but his shirt and fear.

So I wait, teeth biting down on my lip, heart racing, breath in my throat.

Come back to me.

I hear the engine cut, the driver’s door open. Boots crunching on gravel, then nothing. Just silence.

I stay frozen at the door, my hand hovering over the knob.

What if he needs a minute?

What if he’s not ready to be touched yet?

What if some part of him is still there—in that shadowed place he went for me?

I press my forehead to the wood. Breathe slow.

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