The house you shared with Bill wasn’t big — it didn’t need to be. It sat at the edge of town, surrounded by tall trees that whispered when the wind moved through them. You loved the sound of it, the quiet rustle that reminded you of the way Bill’s fingers traced lazy circles on your back when the two of you lay together on the couch at night.

Sometimes, you’d find him at his desk early in the morning, the first hint of sunrise turning his hair gold. He’d be writing — always writing — but there was a peace in him now that hadn’t been there years ago. The words came softer, steadier. He said you were the reason for that.

You’d tease him for being sentimental, but when he looked up at you, eyes gentle and shining in that particular Bill way, your breath always caught.

One night, he came home later than usual, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his expression tired but soft. He found you sitting on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, a mug of tea cooling in your hands. He smiled when he saw you.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, that little rasp in his voice curling around the word. “You waitin’ up for me again?”

You shrugged, pretending it wasn’t a big deal. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t get lost in your own stories.”

He laughed, that quiet kind of laugh that rumbled low in his chest, and sat beside you. His hand found yours without even trying. You both sat there for a while, saying nothing, listening to the crickets and the wind.

After a long stretch of silence, Bill spoke. “You ever think about D-Derry?” he asked softly.

You turned to look at him. His eyes were distant, but not haunted — not anymore.

“Sometimes,” you admitted. “But not like before. It feels… different now. Lighter.”

He nodded, then reached up to brush a strand of hair from your face. “You m-made it lighter,” he whispered.

There were so many things you could’ve said — that he did the same for you, that healing was never a straight path — but instead, you leaned into his touch and kissed his palm.

That night, when you went inside, Bill wrapped his arms around you as if to anchor himself to the moment. The world could shift, memory could fade, but this — this home, this love — was real.

Later, when the two of you lay tangled beneath the sheets, the sound of rain beginning to tap against the windows, he whispered against your skin, “You’re my favorite story I ever told.”

You smiled in the dark. “And I’m never letting you write an ending.”

He laughed softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Deal.”

And for once in his life, Bill Denbrough didn’t fear the silence. He welcomed it. Because now, the quiet didn’t mean loss. It meant peace — the kind found only in the arms of someone who truly knew him.