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I shut it off. The silence afterward is deafening.

The miles dissolve beneath my tires. Headlights slice through the dark. Pines press in close, their limbs arching above me like ribs. The rain making the air smell like damp earth and rot, the scent of things buried too long. I pass a gas station with a flickering neon sign. I think about stopping. Breathing. But the thought of Levi, his smile, his hollow prayers, drives me forward.

Millwood emerges from the trees like a secret. Quiet streets. Sleeping houses. The church is the only thing alive, its white walls glowing under the moon. A single light burns above the door, casting long shadows across the steps. I kill the engine and sit in the silence. The car ticks as it cools. The scent of asphalt, cut grass, and candle wax drifts through the air.

He’s here.

I step out, boots sinking into the soft dirt. The church looms tall, the steeple clawing at the sky. My thumb twitches against my index finger. I circle to the side of the building. A narrow alley cloaked in shadow. Voices drift on the breeze, low and measured. Laughter follows.

I see him.

Levi stands apart. Rigid posture. Hands clasped like he’s still praying for something worth saving. He’s older. Thicker. But it’s him.

He laughs. Warm. Practiced. Poison.

The others begin to leave. One by one, they vanish into the night. Levi locks the door behind them with deliberate slowness. My pulse spikes.

This is it.

I follow him at a distance. The alley closes in around me, and the smell of mildew and damp brick floods my nose. He doesn’t look back. Just walks. He disappears into a small house at the edge of the property. The porch light flickers like it’s trying to decide whether to stay alive.

I wait.

The air thickens. Cold creeps into my jacket. A dog barks somewhere far off. The crickets fill the void between heartbeats. When the lights go out, I move.

The door creaks under my hand. Inside, it smells like old wood and lies. The furniture is sparse. Functional. Nothing to distract from the silence. I find him in the bedroom. The door is ajar, the soft whir of a fan masking my approach. He’s sprawled across the bed, the cheap quilt pulled halfway down his chest, his breathing deep and even.

I step closer, the floorboards groaning under my weight.

“Levi.”

His name cuts the air like a blade.

His eyes snap open, and for a moment, they don’t register anything, just wild, animal panic. His body lurches upright, one hand fumbling for something, glasses? A weapon? A prayer? It doesn’t matter. His legs tangle in the sheets as he tries to push himself back, shoulders slamming into the headboard.

The fear is unmistakable.

“Lydia,” he breathes. His voice cracks around my name. “Oh… God.”

“Not quite,” I say, stepping further into the moonlight.

He shrinks as I move closer. There’s a visible tremor in his arms now, his fingers curling into the blanket like it could shield him.

“I knew this day would come,” he says, throat dry. “I’ve been waiting.”

“Have you?” I ask, my voice flat. “You didn’t run.”

“I thought about it,” he admits, swallowing hard. “But where would I go? You don’t outrun something like this.” He lets out a short, humorless laugh. Psalm 139. Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? They made us memorize that one first. Made sure we knew there was nowhere to hide. Not from Him. Not from them, either.” His jaw tightens. “You don’t run from something like this Lydia. You know as well as I do.”

He stares at the knife in my hand, the way the light kisses the blade. His lips twitch like they want to form a prayer, but nothing comes out. “You were just a girl,” he says.

“Don’t,” I command. My tone slices through whatever pathetic illusion he thought he could still cling to.

He begins to shake. “I. I’m not proud of what happened. Of what I did. Or what I let happen. I’ve lived with it every day…”

“So have I,” I cut him off. I move closer. He flinches.

But this moment, this exact heartbeat, is mine.