Thornhill doesn’t smell like roses anymore.

It smells like smoke.

Charred wood. Wet ash. Loss.

You hesitate at the doorway, unsure if she’ll even want to see you—but then you spot her, sitting on the floor near what used to be the grand staircase, knees pulled to her chest.

Cheryl Blossom looks smaller than you’ve ever seen her.

“Hey,” you say softly.

She looks up, eyes red-rimmed, makeup gone, defenses stripped away. For once, she doesn’t make a joke. She doesn’t posture.

She just stares at you like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You came,” she whispers.

You cross the room in a few quiet steps and sit beside her. “Of course I did.”

She tries to say something sharp—something Cheryl—but it breaks apart in her throat. Her breath stutters, and suddenly she’s crying, hands trembling as she presses them to her face like she’s embarrassed to be seen like this.

“I lost everything,” she sobs. “My home. My memories. I couldn’t even save—”

You pull her into your arms before she can finish.

She clutches you immediately, fingers digging into your jacket like you’re the only solid thing left in the world.

“I’m so tired,” she cries against your shoulder. “I keep fighting. I keep surviving. And I’m just—so tired.”

You hold her tighter, rocking her gently as her sobs shake through both of you.

“You don’t have to be strong right now,” you murmur. “I’ve got you.”

Her breathing slowly evens out, tears soaking into your shoulder as she finally lets herself collapse—no pride, no performance. Just grief.

After a while, she whispers, “Promise you won’t leave.”