The door creaked open and there she was—Kate, safe. But different.

You dropped the mug in your hand. Ceramic shattered against the kitchen tile, but you didn’t care. She stood still in the doorway like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to be here, in her own home. Her eyes scanned the room like she expected danger to crawl out from the shadows.

You wrapped your arms around her carefully, slowly, feeling her stiffen before she melted into you. Her breath hitched. “I’m home,” she whispered, more to herself than to you.

The first few nights were the hardest. She’d flinch at creaking floorboards, jerk awake from sleep with gasps caught in her throat, eyes wild, reaching for a weapon she no longer carried.

You never asked her to explain. You just held her when the tremors wouldn’t stop, ran warm baths, played her favorite records low in the background. One night, while brushing her damp hair by the window, she murmured, “I thought I’d never hear music again.”

You kissed the back of her shoulder. “You’re safe now, Kate. You’re home.”

Her fingers found yours, tightly, like a lifeline. It was slow—rebuilding the sense of normalcy—but in the quiet hum of shared mornings, in the safety of soft smiles and gentle touches, she began to trust the silence again. And every time she looked at you, she looked a little more like herself.