Page 243 of Let Me In

EMMY

I hearhim before I see him.

Muted thumps above the ceiling, the low creak of wood adjusting under his weight. Then the soft scrape of something heavy being pulled across old floorboards.

The attic.

I blink up from where I’m curled in the armchair, quilted and warm and not quite ready to face the day. Luca lifts his head beside me but doesn’t move, just watches the ceiling with sleepy eyes. Cleo is already awake, pawing lazily at the window ledge where the sun spills in gold.

There’s no rush here. Not with Cal.

I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, listening. Another rustle, then a low grunt. The trapdoor clicks open, and a ladder creaks downward in slow, steady intervals.

I smile into the softness of the quilt, already picturing the way his brows must be drawn, the way his mouth tilts when he’s focused. There’s something about hearing him move through the house that makes my chest feel full in the best kind of way. Like I’m witnessing something sacred. Like I get to belong here, the first time I’ve felt like I could belong anywhere.

The cabin settles again. Footsteps land firm and quiet on the floorboards, the soft thud of his boots carrying a kind of weight that makes the room feel steadier just by having him in it. A beat later, Cal steps into the room carrying something in both arms.

An old wooden trunk.

It’s scuffed at the corners, the brass hinges dulled with age. Cal sets it down with a quiet exhale and rests a hand on the lid, not opening it yet. He looks over at me, and I see it then—just beneath the stillness in his gaze. That almost imperceptible shift.

Like whatever’s in that trunk matters. Like it might matter to me.

“Found this when I was checking the beams,” he says. His voice is low, sleep-rough still. “Been meaning to bring it down for a while.”

I nod, not quite trusting my voice, because something in the air has changed. I don’t know what it is yet, only that it’s soft and serious and stitched with that hush he carries when he’s about to tell me something important.

He lowers himself to the floor beside the trunk, then looks up at me.

“Come here, little one.”

My breath catches at the sound of it. The floor is cool beneath my bare feet as I rise, legs a little unsteady. But I go, heart thudding for no good reason except that his voice—his voice—said come.

I sink beside him, our knees nearly touching, his body radiating warmth in the quiet space between us. The heat of him seeps into my side, grounding and steadying, like even just being close to him is enough to make the world feel safer. The trunk waits between us, quiet and old and full of something I can’t name yet.

Cal doesn’t open it right away. He watches me for a long moment, his thumb brushing the edge of the lid.

“I used to think this stuff didn’t matter,” he says finally. “Old uniforms. Photos. Some books. Things I’ve had packed away for years. Most of it I was ready to throw out.”

I nod again, swallowing thickly. My hands rest in my lap, fingers curled tight together.

“But one thing… I kept for a reason I didn’t understand until now.”

He lifts the lid.

And the world stills.

Inside, everything is neatly folded. Stacked like it matters. Like he’s touched it recently. A photograph rests on top—a black-and-white image, corners curled slightly from time, tucked into the cover of a worn book.

Cal lifts the photo first, brushing his thumb along the edge. He doesn’t pass it to me right away. Just studies it for a long moment, something unreadable moving through his expression.

Then, slowly, he turns it so I can see.

Two figures stand in front of what looks like a weathered cabin—different from this one. The man on the left is unmistakably him. Younger, hard-eyed, the set of his jaw sharper. His arm is around a woman older than him, her smile soft and crinkling her whole face.

“She was the first person who made me believe I wasn’t too far gone,” Cal says.

“Didn’t share blood. Didn’t matter. She called me hers anyway.”

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