Page 5 of What Remains

Oh, how he missed that.

Missed the warmth of her.

Missed the sound of her soft voice saying "You're my person, Seth" against his shoulder in the dark—and how her words haunted him now, every single day.

Missed being completely hers, without question—and despised the fact that some defiant piece of him wouldn't allow her to go no matter how hard he tried to give her up.

He stripped off his clothes slowly, folding them with military precision just from habit. The part of him that yearned to rip them apart instead rebelled against the senseless discipline that had failed at keeping anything truly important to him.

The heat from the steam enveloped him as he submerged in the water, soothing his strained muscles although he pushed against it with resistance, like he didn't deserve any peace for being so imperfect. He sank into the warm water until he rested with his shoulders touching the cool rock of the walls.

He let the warmth still his mind.

But the ache didn't go away.

Closing his eyes, he spoke into the empty chamber of the springs.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into the empty cavern. "I should've protected you better." Then, gritting his teeth as if confessing a terrible crime, the admission he'd never voiced aloud. "And I'm angry you left me here alone."

A tear slid silently down his cheek and dripped off into the spring.

Crying made him feel weak.

He never cried.

But there, in the silent peace of the springs where no one would see him and demand more than he could give—tears fell. Silently. Privately. Fiercely angry.

None of them needed to see how damaged he still was or resent their demands for him to keep standing strong while he crumbled silently.

He spent some time in the water, allowing the steam to soothe him, allowing his grief to flow through him instead of overwhelming him—even as a stubborn bit of his soul battled the entire time.

He finally rose and dressed once more, his breath calm.

He wasn't fixed. He knew enough not to believe that.

But he could stand up again, despite himself.

That would have to be enough for now.

Chapter 2

Basement Home & Sad Endings

Josie climbed the narrow basement steps, two cans of soup cradled in one arm, her socked feet silent on the worn carpet. The house above remained dark and cold. Yet, in the windowless box beneath the house, the basement had become their world over the past months—the warmest, safest, most hidden corner of a house that no longer felt like home.

It held their blankets, their carefully rationed supplies, and the mattress she'd dragged down for Layla—currently in front of the fireplace's brick hearth. The fire crackled weakly, fed from the lumber Mark had once stockpiled for summer backyard projects he would never finish, and the furniture she slowly dragged down.

Josie paused halfway up the stairs, one hand gripping the unfinished wood railing, breathing in the faint scent of woodsmoke drifting up toward her.

Layla still slept where Josie had left her—her tiny five-year-old body curled beneath a mountain of mismatched blankets, dark curls splayed across the pillow, one small hand tucked beneath her chin. The soft glow of the fire painted her cheeks warm and pink; for a moment, she looked untouched by everything.

Josie's chest tightened, her new reality now—fear and love tangled together so completely that she could no longer separate one from the other.

Her gaze drifted to the fireplace.

Mark's voice rose from memory, teasing and bright, just as it had sounded the day the realtor first showed them through:

"Come on, Josie—think of all the romantic nights we could have. A fire, a glass of wine... I'm telling you, this house is worth it for the fireplace alone."