The house felt different after the funeral—quieter in a way that pressed on the ribs. Slade stood in the doorway of their childhood home, boots on the same warped floorboards their father once stomped across, eyes sweeping over photographs, dust, and memories that no longer had anyone to anchor them. His jaw was locked tight, that soldier’s stillness settling over him like armor.

Behind him, his sister lingered just inside the threshold, silent and small in the dim light. She didn’t have to say anything—her breathing told him enough. She was overwhelmed, tired, refusing to fall apart.

Slade stepped further inside, hands sliding into his pockets as he studied the empty living room. Two parents gone, taken in the same year, leaving the two of them standing alone in a place that hadn’t felt like home in a long time. He could see every argument, every bruise, every rare warm moment replaying on the walls. This was where they were built… and broken.

He turned slightly, catching the way she scanned the room like it might swallow her. That was when something shifted behind his eye patch—his expression softening, just barely. He didn’t need words to say what he already decided.

She wasn’t doing this alone.

Slade reached out, resting a steady hand on her shoulder, guiding her forward just enough to stand at his side. They stood like that for a long moment, two Wilson siblings in the ruins of the life that forged them.

Their parents were gone. Their past was over.

But the two of them? They’d survive it—together.