And then I see it.
A piece of paper near the entry door.
I stop. My pulse kicks up again, not from a dream this time but from something real, something waiting for me. My breath hitches as I move forward, the sound of my own footsteps too loud in the quiet.
Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s—hope flares, foolish and fragile—maybe it’s a note. From Hope. A message, something small, something that makes this place feel less empty.
I bend down, pick it up, unfold it with careful fingers.
The words slash across the page in jagged, uneven handwriting.
You shouldn’t have come back.
The breath I was holding leaves in a sharp exhale. I read it again, as if the words might shift, rearrange themselves into something less menacing. They don’t. They sit there, stark against the white paper, ink bleeding into my thoughts, sinking into my skin.
A chill spreads through me.
Someone was here.
Someone knows I’m back.
Someone wants me gone.
The paper crumples in my grip as I take a step back. Then another. My mind races, pulling at possibilities, trying to piece together something that makes sense.
Hopper? No. He’s nosy, sure, but not cruel. And he—he didn’t seem like this. He seemed . . . kind.
So who?
And how do they know I’m here?
I sink onto the floor, staring at the note in my hand. A million scenarios run through my mind, none of them comforting. Was it someone from town? Someone who didn’t want me here. The thought sends a shiver down my spine. This place has secrets. It always has. But I never thought they’d come for me.
The unease from last night is back, curling low in my stomach. I press my palms against my thighs, trying to steady my breathing.
Think, Nysa. Think.
I can’t stay here. Not like this.
But where would I go?
Back to hiding? No. I came back for a reason, and I’m not letting some coward with a piece of paper scare me off.
A knock at the door jolts through me. My fingers go slack, and the note flutters to the floor. My breath catches. For a split second, I can’t move, my pulse hammering in my ears.
The knock comes again, softer this time.
“Nysa? You okay?”
Hopper.
Relief crashes over me so hard my legs nearly buckle. Pushing off the wall, I force myself to stand, smoothing my hands down my sides as if that will steady me. I open the door, and there he is—rumpled and half-awake, his hair tousled like he rolled out of bed five minutes ago. He holds a travel mug in one hand, the other resting against the small back of the toddler perched on his hip.
A little girl.
My stomach dips. Of course he has a kid. Of course he’s married. A man like him? Who wouldn’t marry him?
The girl blinks up at me, then gives a sleepy, toothy smile. “Hi.”
