The fire in the hearth had burned low by the time Joel pushed open the cabin door, letting in a gust of icy wind that made the flames shudder. You glanced up from where you sat mending a frayed sweater—one of his, because even after all these years, you still picked up after him. Some habits refused to die, just like the two of you.

Jackson had given you walls, a roof, a pretense of safety. But the ghosts followed anyway.

Joel shrugged off his coat, snow dusting his shoulders. His hands were bare, the knuckles red from cold—or maybe from clenching them too tight during another session with Gale. You’d told him months ago that the woman wasn’t objective, that therapy only worked if the therapist didn’t secretly want you dead. But Joel had just grunted and kept going, like he needed the punishment.

His eyes flickered over you for a moment before speaking “went to see Gale today” Joel hesitated. Then, quiet as a confession: “Told me she hated me.”

Your needle stilled.

“For Pittsburgh.” His throat worked. “For her husband.”