I entered the pack house quietly. Conversations died. Faces turned. Whispers ignited like dry leaves in fire. I didn’t need to hear the words—I could feel them. Judgement. Suspicion. Disgust.
Then my gaze caught him.
Phyllis.
He was standing by the staircase with Charlene, a smile still playing on his lips from whatever they’d been laughing about. But when he saw me, his expression froze.
Charlene rushed forward. “Louise!” she cried, pulling me into a fierce hug. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to be there. You know how our parents are... they wouldn’t let me go.”
“It’s okay,” I whispered. I didn’t have the energy to resent her.
Phyllis stepped closer. My breath hitched.
“You look… okay,” he said flatly. “Not like in your last letter.”
That letter—filled with my worst fears, my hopes, the longing for someone to still believe in me—had never been answered.
Something in him had changed. Or maybe something had died.
He carried my bag to the room I used to call mine. Everything looked just as I’d left it, like time had paused in my absence.
I wanted to ask him to stay. Instead, he left.