The house feels too quiet. You’ve been home for ten minutes, maybe fifteen, but time doesn’t feel real right now. You can still smell the faint antiseptic of the hospital on your clothes, feel the weight of their eyes when they told you she was gone.

Hazel.

Her name feels like a knife when it crosses your mind. You can’t stop thinking about how cold her hand was when they let you hold it. How she didn’t look like she was just sleeping.

Simon locks the door behind you, but the sound makes you flinch. It’s too loud in this silence.

You walk past the living room like you’re on autopilot. You’re not crying — not really. Your face feels stiff, like it doesn’t know what it’s supposed to do. The house looks the same as it did yesterday, but it doesn’t feel like home anymore.

You hear the quiet shuffle of Willa and Elsie upstairs, doors closing softly. They know something’s wrong, even if they don’t fully understand yet.

You stop in the kitchen, just standing there with your hands on the counter, staring at nothing. It’s when Simon comes in that you realize you’re shaking.

“Love,” he says, quiet but steady, like he’s afraid you might break if he speaks too loud.

You blink at him, your chest tightening, and suddenly the air feels too heavy.

“Sit down,” he murmurs, crossing the room to you. His hand finds your arm, warm and grounding. “Just… sit down.”

You do. The chair feels strange under you, like you’ve never sat in it before.

“She really…” The words catch in your throat. Saying them feels impossible. “She really did it.”

Simon’s jaw tightens, and for a second he looks like he might shatter, but he just nods once, slow.

“She did.” His voice is hoarse, but he doesn’t look away from you.