Page 56 of Let Me In

This is something sacred.

She doesn’t come to me.

Doesn’t speak.

She just settles.

The recliner creaks softly beneath her, the kind of weight a person makes when they’re trying to take up as little space as possible. I can hear the pull of the blanket, the shift of her knees as she curls in, the quietest exhale. And for a second, all I can picture is how small she looks curled into that chair. Tucked into my quilt, wearing my clothes, her knees drawn close—it hits me deep. Makes something low and protective curl tight in my gut. Like I want to stand guard over this moment for the rest of my life.

And then—nothing.

Just stillness.

The kind that only comes when someone feels safe.

I let my eyes open.

Just a sliver.

And there she is. Curled up in the chair across from me. Her face soft, eyelashes fanned against her cheek. My quilt pulled up to her chin, the edges of my shirt visible beneath it—the sleeves swallow her wrists, the collar dips low—and I think I’ve never seen anything that looked more like it belonged to me.

It hits me like a punch to the chest.

This small, breakable girl asleep in my cabin.

Wearing my clothes.

Wrapped in something I gave her.

Too afraid to ask to be close… and needing it anyway.

God.

I’ve seen war. I’ve watched men die. I’ve made them die. I’ve stood in blood and fire and ruin more times than I can count.

But this?

This undoing?

This quiet surrender?

It unravels something in me I didn’t know was still holding on.

She doesn’t even know what she’s doing.

How could she?

She just needed to be near.

And instead of asking, she curled up within reach. Where she could see me. Where she could sleep.

Like she feels it too.

Like she knows.

The closeness hums in the space between us. Not touch, not words—just the steady presence of her. And it hits me low and deep, like gravity. Like an ache I've missed until now.

I don’t move.

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