Page 55 of Jayson
She’s done a hell of a job keeping the house standing without changing a single damn thing. And maybe that’s the problem, because in maintaining everything the way it was, she’s also held on to the ghosts. And not the kind you talk about in stories. The kind that settle in the bones of the walls, thatbreathe down your neck when you’re alone. The kind you don’t outrun.
My father moved out years ago, but that never made it easier to walk through this door. The possibility of seeing him again—of hearing that voice, that laugh—was enough to keep me away, no matter how much I missed my grandmother. It wasn’t worth the risk.
Now, standing here, I can see what she tried to do. Nina, with her fragile grace and iron will. She didn’t renovate—she preserved. As if by clinging to the past, she could rewrite it. As if refusing to move forward could somehow make the memories kinder.
But this house doesn’t forget.
The air still holds that same tension, stretched tight like a held breath. There’s a silence here that doesn’t feel peaceful. It feels expectant. Like the walls are watching, waiting for something to snap. And maybe they are.
Because this house was never just a home. It was a stage. And violence played out in every room.
It’s in the corners, in the faint stains no one talks about, in the way the light doesn’t quite reach the edges. It’s in the heaviness that presses down on your chest when you stand too still.
This house remembers what we did. And I do too.
Nina sits across from me, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea, just as beautiful and youthful as she’s always been. She watches me like she always has—like she sees straight through the bone and blood and fury. Like she knows what I don’t say.
The silence between us is comfortable. Old. Familiar. You wouldn’t guess that we hadn’t seen each other in a decade.
I hear the pitter patter of soft feet as they tap down the hallway. Then I feel it. Hesitation. Caution.
Keira steps into the kitchen like a girl walking into the lion's den. She wears an oversized cardigan, sleeves swallowing herhands, her gaze darting toward the floor, then to me, then back down again. Her hair is a little messy, her expression sheepish, like she’s waiting for someone to tell her which way to go.
I lower the glass from my lips and just look at her.
I hadn’t noticed until now—until the daylight hit her in that cardigan two sizes too big—how pretty she is. Not in the obvious, magazine kind of way. But in the haunted kind. In the way her pain clings to her skin like it belongs there. In the way she carries herself like someone expecting to be punished for taking up space.
She’s not just beautiful. She’s haunting.
“Juice?” I offer, holding up the glass.
She hesitates for a second. Then nods. That same timid, ghost-of-a-nod I used to give when I was too proud to ask for comfort and too desperate to reject it.
I pour her a glass and slide it across the counter. She takes it carefully, like it might bite her. Her fingers brush mine. Warm. Soft. Real.
Nina watches all of this with that unreadable look she wears when she knows more than she lets on.
Keira takes a sip. Doesn’t meet my eyes.
She lingers near the edge of the table like she doesn't know whether to sit, stand, or run. Nina pats the chair beside her, and Keira slides into it like it’s a trap. But the way she exhales—quiet and trembling—tells me she’s relieved someone took the decision out of her hands.
I drain the last of my juice and set the glass down.
“I have to go out for a bit,” I say, pushing off the counter.
Keira looks up, and there's something in her eyes. Something between panic and disappointment. I see it, but I pretend I don’t.
“You're safe here,” I say, voice low, steady. “Nina won’t let any monsters in.”
Behind me, Nina lets out a sharp snort, lifting her mug like a salute. “That’s right,” she drawls. “I only let them out.”
It earns a huff of breath from Keira. Almost a smile. Not quite, but close. Her lips twitch at the corners like they’re remembering how. It hits me harder than it should—how something as simple as not being afraid can feel like a win.
She tucks her hair behind her ear, eyes darting up to mine. There's gratitude there. Something softer, tentative. And I can feel the walls inside me shifting, just a little. Dangerous.
Too fucking dangerous.
I nod once, then turn my back on both of them before I let the moment get its claws in me. Because if I stay—if I let myself sit across from her, if I let her look at me like that a second longer—I’ll do something irreversible.
