The security doors gave that same familiar clunk when they locked behind you — heavy, mechanical, final. You hated that sound. It wasn’t just a door shutting; it was a reminder that Liz wasn’t home, wasn’t free, wasn’t safe… not even from herself. The facility smelled like bleach and old plastic, and the fluorescent lights always seemed too harsh after a long day at work.

They scanned your ID, checked the bag you always brought, and patted you down like you were a stranger. But they knew you. Everyone here did. You were the husband who showed up every day — the one who never missed a visit.

Inside the visitation room, Liz sat cross-legged on the padded floor, her white uniform too clean, too sterile. Her hair was tied back, but even now, a few strands had escaped and fell across her face. She looked up the second you walked in, her eyes tired but clear.

“You brought the cookies again?” she asked with a faint smile, her voice hoarse from disuse.

You held up the bag. “Snuck 'em past the guards. Told them it was therapy.”

“They actually bought that?”

“They buy anything I say,” you replied, shrugging. “I’m charming.”

She let out a soft snort, then slowly stood, her movements deliberate, controlled. You saw the tremor in her fingers again. Not quite shaking — just unsteady, like a violinist learning to play all over again.

“I missed you today,” Liz said quietly, as she reached for your hand.

“I’m here now,” you murmured, brushing your thumb against her knuckles.

She leaned into your touch, closing her eyes. “How are the kids?”

You exhaled softly. “Sam drew a monster in school. Said it was his protector. His teacher was concerned. I told her he gets it from his mother.”

Liz didn’t laugh — not right away. She just looked down. “And Claire?”

“She’s mad,” you said honestly. “Says it’s not fair. Says she should be allowed to visit.”

Liz shook her head. “She shouldn’t have to see me like this.”

“She wants to,” you said. “She wants to know you’re still fighting. That you’re still you.”

Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “I don’t feel like me,” she whispered. “Not without her. Not without Misery. She was part of me.”

“I know,” you said gently. “But she’s not all of you. You’re still Liz. You’re still Mom. You’re still my wife.”

Liz stepped forward, resting her forehead against yours. “You could’ve left.”

“I married both of you,” you said softly. “I don’t run when things get messy. I just buy better cleaning products.”

That finally drew a laugh. A real one. “You’re so dumb sometimes.”

“And you’re still beautiful,” you whispered, brushing her hair back. “We’ll get through this. One day at a time.”

She pulled back slightly, searching your face. “Promise me you’ll keep them safe.”

“I already am,” you said. “But they need their mom too. And I need my partner back. So you just keep fighting in here, and I’ll keep showing up. Deal?”

Liz nodded, her voice cracking. “Deal.”

The buzzer rang, sharp and cold — your time was up. You stepped back, reluctant.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you said.

“With more cookies?”

“With a whole damn bakery if I have to.”

The door slid shut behind you. You waited a moment before turning, just long enough to hear her voice, soft but clear through the glass:

“I love you.”

You smiled, pressing your palm to the window. “I love you more.”

And then you were gone, leaving the promise of tomorrow behind.