Page 60 of Bear Naked Truth
And the ghosts?
They didn’t stop.
They whispered in her dreams. They tugged at her fingertips when she tried to write. Every time she passed a mirror, she expected to see someone else’s reflection staring back.
And she knew—somewhere deep and certain—that the house hadn’t rejected her.
She’d rejected herself.
And in doing so, she’d turned the Hollow Man’s sorrow inward.
Because if there was one truth Hollis had been trying to tell her, it was this: you cannot exorcise a ghost you’re still carrying in your chest.
By dusk, she was pacing Nico’s kitchen in mismatched socks and a sweater that didn’t smell like Dorian. She’d picked up her sketchpad three times. Put it down three times. And when she’d walked past the window that faced the edge of Echo Woods, the wind stirred the branches in a rhythm she hadn’t heard since the day she learned the Hollow Man’s name.
It was like the woods werewaitingfor her to listen.
So she did.
She pulled on her boots, packed her sketchpad and a charm of black salt and rose quartz, left a scribbled note for Nico that just said“I’m okay. Probably.”
She didn’t take the scarf she’d left behind.
Because the truth was—she didn’t need armor anymore.
Not if she was going home.
The path to Briar Hollow felt longer than it had ever felt before. Not because of the distance, but because every footstep carried a memory.
Dorian brushing her hair back with a hand gentler than any she’d known, holding her steady when her knees wanted to fold under the weight of her own fears, him carving her name into the back of a rocking chair without asking for anything in return.
Every step stirred guilt.
And love.
And the bone-deep understanding that peace didn’t come from the absence of ghosts.
It came from learning how to live with the ones that stayed.
The porch light was off when she arrived. But she didn’t hesitate.
The inn loomed like it always had—tall and still and watching—but the air was different tonight. Still, yes, but not in warning. In welcome.
She stepped up onto the porch and stopped cold.
There he was.
Dorian.
Curled into the rocking chair on the far side, head tilted back, flannel jacket tucked around his chest like the weight of the world had finally made him sit down. His boots were off and lined up neatly beside him, one slightly askew. A half-finished mug of tea—hers, she’d bet—sat abandoned on the railing, forgotten.
And carved into the slat of the rocking chair beside him, catching the last glint of moonlight, was her name.
Autumn.
She stared at it, eyes burning, chest tightening.
He hadn’t moved.
