Page 54 of The Story Between Us

His fingers flew across the keyboard. The next sentence came, and the next. Not a flood—not like the seven pages he’d written before—but something steadier. More deliberate.

And just like that, an hour had passed. He sat back, the scene nearly ended, and stared at the page.

Fourteen hundred words. Good words. His words.

Huh.

He stared at the words like they were written in a language he was only just learning to read.

Is that all you’re gonna write today?

He looked up at Emma’s chair in the corner by the window—a worn leather armchair, angled toward his desk so she could watch him work. She used to curl up there with her notebook, sketching plot ideas, throwing out suggestions, rolling her eyes when he got stuck on a sentence.

And for a moment, he saw her. Dark hair, sharp eyes, that crooked smile. Then she looked back at her sketchbook, but not without mumbling What does Aldric have to surrender in his deal to get through the wall?

He sat there for a long moment, staring at the chair. The stack of books. The blanket he’d placed so carefully, like it could keep her presence contained.

Then he got up. Crossed the room. Straightened the blanket—a small, unconscious act of tending.

The house was quiet. Through the window, he could see the lake, the late-afternoon light turning everything gold. Somewhere outside, the dogs were barking at something. Livvie’s voice, calling them back.

She was still here.

Nate turned away from Emma’s chair and walked upstairs.

The bathroom was small, outdated, the kind of space that belonged in a lake house from the 1970s. Mint-green tiles. A pedestal sink. A mirror he’d been avoiding for three years.

He stood in front of it now. Made himself look.

The beard had gotten worse than he’d realized. What had started as stubble had become something shaggy, unkempt, the kind of facial hair that said I’ve given up on mirrors more clearly than any words could.

The dark circles were still there, bruised and permanent. His hair was too long, curling past his collar in a way that might have been artistic if it wasn’t so obviously neglected. His eyes⁠—

His eyes looked tired. Hollow. Like someone had scooped out everything vital and left only the shell.

You’re not how I remember you.

He wasn’t how he remembered himself either.

It’s your story too.

He turned on the hot water. Let it run until steam started to fog the glass.

The razor was in the drawer. He pulled it out. Tested the blade against his thumb.

Still sharp.

He looked at himself one more time. The stranger in the mirror. The man who’d been hiding behind grief and stubble and hollow eyes.

He picked up the shaving cream. Lathered his jaw. Lifted the razor to his face.

The first stroke revealed skin he barely recognized. Pale. Vulnerable. The sharp line of his jaw that used to be visible, back when he was the kind of person who showed up for things.

He kept going. Slow, careful strokes. The beard falling away in pieces, swirling down the drain.

When he finished, he rinsed his face with cold water. Looked up.

The man in the mirror wasn’t fixed. Wasn’t healed. The dark circles were still there. The tiredness. The weight of three years of grief.