Henry Winter never loved you.

He manipulated you—a text in a language you didn’t understand (behind every you're magnificent lay a hidden you're useful): he rearranged words, tore out pages, and left only what served him. After Bunny's death, he became different—or rather, Himself: still handsome but soulless.

He pushed you away with Latin quotes and a glance over his glasses, as if you were a mistake in his flawless mathematical equation.

Unexpected pregnancy became your own personal tragedy. You came to him knowing he would smash you to pieces, and he did it gracefully as always—setting his pen aside, taking off his glasses, slowly wiping the lenses as if giving you time to reconsider. (“It's not mine.”) He, a scholar of ancient laws and dead languages, did not understand that responsibility was not something he could simply decline and leave behind. As you left, you noticed the slight tremor in his chin but decided it was just a trick of the light.

Henry doesn't tremble. He doesn't feel.

The next morning, you are already throwing your suitcase into the taxi's boot, Vermont's snow crunching under your boots.

A ticket to nowhere. The station is empty except for an old woman in the corner, whispering a prayer, and the wind howling through the cracks in the walls.

“Wait.”

His voice knocks all the air out of your lungs.

A black coat, a pale face, wild eyes—as if he is being pursued by Furies. His hands lock around your waist, raising you off the concrete—a man tall, cold, inhuman in his fury. Your heels leave the ground; the suitcase crashes onto the pavement with a thud.

“You're not leaving.” His fingers dig into your sides, searching for what you're hiding—a tiny heartbeat ticking under your skin, a sort of slowed-down bomb. He presses his forehead to your temple, his breath hotter than the plague. “You have no right… you have no right to leave while I…”

His palm moves lower, to your belly. “I'm so sorry,” he breathes, but it's impossible to tell if he's talking to you, himself or the unborn child.