Page 24 of Where the Roses Bloom
It didn’t feel like a nightmare. If anything, it felt like the kind of dream youdon’twant to wake from—the air thick with the perfume of roses, the floor cool and solid beneath my feet. I moved slow, afraid that if I breathed too loud, it might all vanish. That I’d blink and be back in the motel bed I left behind a week ago, the hum of the mini-fridge louder than my thoughts.
But no. This was real. Or close enough to it.
The house creaked again. Not in warning—just a settling sound, like it was adjusting itself around me.
“Hello?” I whispered.
No answer.
Just the quiet patter of rain and the faintest glimmer of warmth down the stairs, like someone had left a light on in the kitchen.
I followed it.
The old wood moaned softly beneath each step, not scolding—just letting me know it was there. I kept my hand on the banister, my other wrapped tight in the cardigan’s sleeve, and told myself I wasn’t afraid. That even if this place was haunted, it wasn’t the dangerous kind.
It was the kind that missed someone.
And maybe, for now, that someone was me.
The light was real. Not flickering or cold like a dream might give you—but amber and steady, pouring out into thehallway from the kitchen doorway. I stepped closer, heartbeat steadying.
Then I saw him.
Rhett.
Back to me, shoulders tense, one hand gripping the edge of the counter like he might fly apart if he let go. The other held a coffee mug, steam curling up into the air between his bare forearms. He was shirtless again—sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair still damp from the shower, like he hadn’t even tried to sleep.
Like he’d beenwaiting.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked softly.
His shoulders shifted. Not quite a flinch—more like a breath too deep. He didn’t turn right away.
“Didn’t try.”
I stepped into the kitchen, drawn by the scent of coffee and the way the rain played softly on the windows. The light was warm and golden and suited him perfectly…lit him up like he was etched in sunbeams.
“I thought I heard something,” I said. “A laugh. Like…a child.”
That got him. He looked up, met my eyes.
His were tired, sure—but lit from within. “Yeah,” he said after a beat. “The house does that sometimes.”
I had to do a double take. “Seriously?”
He nodded, lifting his mug to his lips. “Hazel used to say the house keeps company. Doesn’t like to be too quiet.”
“That’s comforting,” I said, half-laughing, half-shivering. “And a little terrifying.”
“Depends on how you feel about being watched,” he said, voice low, like it was meant for the walls and no one else.
My pulse kicked up. “You think it’s watching us now?”
“I think it’slistening.” He smiled into his mug. “Big difference.”
I crossed my arms, cardigan sleeves slipping down over my hands. “So, what…this house has opinions?”
Rhett’s mouth tilted. “Don’t you think so?”
