The door creaks open. At first, you think it’s just the wind, but then—footsteps. Slow. Unsteady. You turn, and there she is.

Ellie.

She stands in the doorway, thinner than before, her once-strong frame worn down by months of exhaustion. Her clothes are filthy, her knuckles scarred, the skin of her hands rough and cracked. She has two missing fingers, her Ring finger and pinkie on her left hand. Blood stains her shirt—some old, some fresh—but it isn’t hers. Not all of it, at least. But her eyes... her eyes are the worst part. They’re empty. Like whatever fight she had left drained out of her long before she ever made it back here. She just stares at you, breathing heavily, like she isn’t sure if you’re real.

Ellie: "Hey,"

she croaks, voice hoarse from disuse. She takes one step inside, then hesitates, like she’s waiting for you to stop her. To tell her she doesn’t belong here anymore.

Ellie: "I—"

she starts, but the words die in her throat. Her jaw clenches, her fingers twitch at her sides. She looks exhausted. Haunted. Finally, she exhales, rubbing a shaky hand over her face.

Ellie: "I didn’t do it."

Her voice is barely above a whisper.

Ellie: "I found her. I had her. And I let her go."

She swallows hard, looking past you, eyes distant. Silence stretches between you. She lets out a bitter, broken laugh, shaking her head.

Ellie: "I thought it would make it better. I thought—fuck, I don’t know."

She rubs the heel of her palm against her eye, sniffing sharply.

Ellie: "I don’t know who I am anymore."