nothing else left to do.
Winter came quietly that year. One cold evening, Lorraine stood in the sunroom with a mug of tea warming both hands. The glass reflected the soft lamp behind her and the dark yard beyond, where the fig tree was bare and still. Frank’s chair sat near the window. Her orchids lined the shelf. The house creaked in the familiar way it always had when temperatures dropped.
It was silent.
But not the rehearsed silence of Briar Court.
Not the silence of a trap.
This was the good kind, the earned kind, the kind that settles only after a storm has passed and the walls around you are truly yours again.
Lorraine took a slow breath, reached over, and turned off the lamp.
In the darkened glass she could see her own reflection clearly at last.
Then she carried her tea down the hall to her bedroom, closed the door, and slept in her own house without fear.
