The night wasn’t peaceful. But it was quiet.
That was the most you could ask for now—quiet. Not peace. Not safety. Just a little stretch of time where the shadows stayed still, and your breath didn’t fog with panic.
You were on Imogen’s bed, lying sideways beneath a worn blanket. The ceiling fan hummed like static. Her room smelled like peppermint tea and the candle she never lit anymore.
Your hand was in hers.
Not laced together. Not romantic. Just… there. A line between drowning and treading water.
“I still flinch at pipes,” she whispered, voice raw from the way you’d both been crying earlier. “The way they groan. It’s like footsteps in walls.”
You nodded. “When I hear someone run down the stairs too fast, I freeze. Even if it’s just a kid. My body doesn’t know the difference anymore.”
Imogen shifted closer, head now resting lightly on your shoulder. Her hair was damp from a shower, her hoodie too big for her frame. Her scars were still healing. The real ones. The invisible ones had teeth.
You traced one across her forearm.
She didn’t pull away.
“Here?” you asked softly.
“Doorframe. Basement. I was trying to crawl under it while he chased Tabby.”
You didn’t speak. Just leaned your forehead against hers.
Your own scars—across your back, one near your ribs—had their own stories. You’d told her some. Not all. Not yet. Some felt like they still belonged to Archie. Like they’d only become yours once he was gone forever.
Except he wasn’t.
Not really.
You didn’t say that out loud. Neither of you did.
Instead, you held her. Listened to her breathing. Talked about dumb things—movies you used to love but couldn’t watch anymore, food that made you feel safe, dreams you had when you were little and didn’t know what real monsters were.
And for a moment, in the stillness of Imogen’s tiny bedroom, you forgot. Almost.
Then came the knock.
Three sharp raps. Not hard. Not frantic. Just… intentional.
Both of you sat up instantly.
It was past midnight.
No car sounds. No footsteps before. No voices.
Imogen looked at you. “Did you—?”
You shook your head.
She grabbed her phone. No new texts. No missed calls.
You stood first, creeping to the window. Pulled the curtain back half an inch.
Nothing.
Then you saw it.
On the doorstep.
A white envelope. No stamp. No name. Just… waiting.
You and Imogen locked eyes.
No words. Only understanding.
She followed you down the stairs. Barefoot. Silent. You opened the door together.
The envelope was cold. Damp. Heavy with something more than paper.
Inside—
A photo.
Of you. And her. From earlier that evening.
Lying on the bed. Her head on your shoulder. The moment you’d just lived—captured from the angle of her window.
From inside the room.
You both gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth. You turned the photo over.
Written in dark red ink:
"TRAUMA BINDS. BUT BLOOD CLAIMS." — Archie.