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I don’t have to go any farther to feel it. To remember.

My fingers stay pressed to the cold wall, the rough texture biting into my skin. I tell myself it’s just stone. Just a wall.

But something inside me tightens.

I was seven the first time I stood at the top of another set of steps. Ones that didn’t lead to the room I stand in now. No, they led to the room I would quickly learn was my hell on earth. He told me that this cellar was off-limits, that it wasn’t meant for children. But that day, he told me to fetch his Bible and follow him. Said it needed to be brought “to the place of correction.”

I clutched the book in both hands, the leather cover slick in my sweaty grip. My fingers were white from holding it too tight, as I stood at the door in my father’s office that leads under the house.

“Down here,” he said, steady and calm, as though we were headed to church and not into something much darker.

I hesitated at the top of the stairs. The light was dim, barely reaching the bottom. The air already felt colder, heavier. And his hand, large, unyielding, settled on my shoulder, guiding me down.

Inside, the room was silent. The walls bare. The only furniture: a single bench with the Bible already laid open. Its pages were worn thin, dog-eared from too many nights of “learning.”

“This is where you’ll make yourself worthy. Where you’ll be taught, when the time is right, what your true place is in this world, Lydia,” he said, that same tone laced with righteousness, like cruelty passed off as salvation. “Now kneel.”

The cold bit into my knees as he made me kneel. The air carried the sharp scent of dust and metal. My breath came in shallow gulps. My mind scrambled for escape. I wanted my mother. Where was she? I should’ve gotten up and run, but my body stayed frozen. Silent. Submissive. Exactly how he liked me.

I blink, my hand jerking back from the wall as if burned.

The cellar around me snaps back into view. The shelves, the boxes, the dusty jars. But my heartbeat is still caught in that other room, in that other time. I steady myself, forcing my legs to hold, even as they tremble under me.

My jaw tightens.

Not anymore.

This house might still hold his ghost, but it doesn’t hold me.

Not anymore.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FIVE

The lights buzz above, too white, too sterile, painting the clinic in that antiseptic glow that makes even shadows feel unwelcome. Soft voices murmur nearby, the quiet clatter of keyboards filling the air. I turn the corner and catch her eye. Patsy, leaning at the nurse’s station, her face lined with the kind of tired that settles deep and stays. She offers a small, knowing smile.

“Last shift for a while, huh?” she says, her mouth pulling into a smirk that’s half teasing, half soft.

I nod, hiking the strap of my bag up on my shoulder. “Yeah. Feels weird. Like I’m just… bailing.” I’ve been at this place since I was twenty and never have I taken any extended time off. There’s been no reason to.

“Oh, please.” Patsy gives a little laugh, waving me off. “You’ve more than earned the time. And hey, I’m still here. The place isn’t going to fall apart without you.”

I laugh under my breath, but it’s not real. Not really. It comes out thin, empty, already echoing with what’s waiting for me beyond these walls.

Because the truth is, stepping away from work isn’t a break. It’s a reminder of the mess, the weight, the chaos waiting for me just outside these walls.

“Any plans to hire someone while you’re gone?” Patsy asks, her voice light but probing.

“Not yet,” I admit. “I’ll see how things go with my father first. Hopefully, it won’t take long to get him settled.”

“Why do you do that?” Patsy asks, her voice light but edged with something, curiosity, maybe even a little unease.

“Do what?” I glance at her, feigning innocence.

“You call him your father, not dad. It’s so… formal. Doesn’t really suit you.”

I pause, letting her words hang between us, the air tightening with all the things I’ll never say out loud. A small smile tugs at my mouth, but it doesn’t touch my eyes.