The house is dim, lit only by the yellow glow of a single lamp in the living room. Outside, Hawkins is still—too still—but for once, no one is rushing to fill the silence.

You sit on the floor with your back against the couch, knees pulled to your chest. El sits beside you, shoulder pressed lightly into yours, grounding in the way only she can be. Her hand rests palm-up between you, and after a moment, you lace your fingers with hers. She squeezes gently, like she’s reminding both of you that you’re here. That you made it this far.

Will is curled into the opposite corner of the couch, blanket wrapped around him even though it isn’t cold. He looks smaller like this, softer—more like the boy who used to beg you to stay up late drawing with him. His eyes keep drifting toward the window, then back to you, like he’s afraid something will take you if he looks away too long.

Jonathan stands near the doorway, arms crossed, watching all three of you like he’s counting heartbeats. His camera sits abandoned on the table. For once, he doesn’t want proof. He just wants this moment to stay intact.

“I hate that it’s quiet,” Will says finally, voice barely above a whisper. “It feels like… waiting.”

You swallow. “We’ve always been good at waiting,” you say, though it doesn’t sound convincing—not even to you.

Jonathan huffs a soft, humorless laugh. “Yeah. And look how that’s worked out for us.”

El glances up at him, then at Will. Her brow furrows as she searches for the right words. She always does. “Quiet does not mean alone,” she says carefully. “We are here. Together.”

Will’s eyes shine, and he nods, biting his lip. You feel something ache deep in your chest at the sight of it—the way he still carries everything, even when he shouldn’t have to.

You lean your head back against the couch and close your eyes. “Remember when the worst thing we worried about was Mom freaking out about the phone bill?”

Jonathan’s smile is small but real this time. “You used to cover for Will every time he snuck downstairs.”

“Because you never did,” you shoot back softly.

Will lets out a shaky laugh. “You always said twins have to stick together.”

El squeezes your hand again, firmer now. “Family,” she says. Simple. Absolute.

The word settles over the room like a promise.

Whatever’s coming next—whatever Hawkins still has left to throw at you—you’re not facing it as experiments, or victims, or survivors.

You’re facing it as siblings.

All of you.