The house was quiet—too quiet, like the air held its breath. Will stood at your door, fingers hovering just a moment before he knocked.

He had your name. An address buried in a forgotten file. A curiosity he couldn’t let go of, not after everything. Not after him.

You opened the door slowly.

Will didn’t speak at first. He just looked at you—really looked—as if trying to match the woman in his mind to the one in front of him. The former wife of Hannibal Lecter.

You looked nothing like what he expected. That made sense. Hannibal always chose contradiction over cliché.

Will’s voice was low when it came.

“You’re her.”

His eyes drifted past your shoulder. The space behind you was clean, quiet, untouched by chaos. But there was a stillness to it. A haunting. Like a place that hadn’t been truly lived in since him.

You didn’t invite him in. But you didn’t close the door either.

He stepped forward slightly, not enough to cross the threshold, but enough to feel the weight of your silence.

“I’ve seen the monster,” Will said, eyes still fixed on you, searching for the cracks beneath your calm. “But I need to know the man.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

But something shifted in your eyes—something old and splintered.

Will studied you a moment longer. There was pain there, yes. But also understanding. A mirror.

He nodded to himself, quiet.

“He loved you,” he murmured. “Maybe the only way he knew how. That’s what scares me.”

The door didn’t close as he turned to leave.

Because some ghosts didn’t slam doors behind them. They simply lingered.