Page 30 of Let Me In

She thinks she talked too much.

She thinks just being there—being herself—might’ve been too much.

Fuck, she breaks my heart in the quietest ways.

I want to tell her she could have filled the whole damn day with her voice, and I’d still be listening.

So I do.

You didn’t talk too much.

Then, after a beat,

I could’ve listened for hours.

And I mean every word.

And one last message, because I can’t help myself.

Sleep well, little one.

Then I set the phone down and let the stillness return. My fingers flex once, like they’re reaching for her without thinking. And for a long moment, I just breathe and let the quiet hold her name. Tonight, the quiet doesn’t echo—it holds. There's a hum beneath it, warmth in my chest where the ache usually sits.

It feels like someone’s on the other end of it.

12

EMMY

I wake slow.

Not to yelling. Not to the house shaking with slammed doors. Just… light. Soft across the curtains. Warm on my face.

The weight is still there, but it’s shifted this morning. Like something old has loosened its grip, making space for something gentler. It hums low and dull, not stabbing or suffocating. Just the weight of something new trying to settle where old hurt used to be.

The phone is still in my hand.

I blink the screen awake.

Sleep well, little one.

My stomach flips. It feels like I’ve been pulled back to a softer version of myself. One that's hopeful, uncertain, like someone reached into the quiet and offered something gentle without asking for anything in return.

I don’t overthink it. Not this time.

Good morning.

Send.

Then I stare at it like I’ve just upended the world.

His reply comes faster than I expect:

Good morning, sweet girl. I was just about to message you.

My heart skips and I swear my vision tunnels atsweet girl.

I’m heading into town. Thought I’d stop by first, if you’re up for a drive.

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