Moonlight saws a thin line across the floorboards, thin enough to cut. The room holds its breath. You don’t.

You come up fast from the dark—sweat cold, throat raw around a name you don’t let out. The mattress gives a whisper beside you. Ellie’s already moving, sleep still clinging to her voice as she gathers you in like she’s done it a hundred times and will do it a hundred more.

“Hey.” Warm air at your temple. “You’re here.”

Her palm works slow between your shoulders, heel to nape, like smoothing a sheet that won’t lie flat. The house creaks once in the wind. Somewhere far off, a bottle rolls and settles. In the quiet, your heart still sprints.

“It’s okay,” she says, as if she can barter with the dark. “You’re safe.”

You nod, but your ribs stay locked. Abby is a weight with teeth. The blood never quite rinses out. You press closer anyway, like proximity could trick your body into believing the truth.

Ellie’s breath stumbles. She holds you tighter—not rough, just certain—and for a moment it feels like the world has edges again, a map you could follow if you had the light.

When she speaks next, her mouth is near your hair. The words are small and hard, a pebble she’s carried so long it’s shaped her palm.

“I’m gonna find them,” she says.

You go still.

“I’m gonna find,” she adds, steady now. “And I’m gonna kill..every last one of them.” she vows.