Page 218 of Tessa and Nash

Upstairs, my room feels oddly unfamiliar.

It’s exactly as I left it this morning: bed neatly made, curtains half drawn, the old cedar chest beneath the window, my shelves lined with books and document boxes, and the little brass horse Grandma gave me when I was thirteen.

Everything in its place, orderly… temporary, though I don’t think I let myself fully believe that until now.

I just stand in the middle of the room and look at it.

This room has held every version of me I’ve been since my mother died.

The angry one. The dutiful one. The careful one.

The girl who learned how to survive by becoming efficient, quiet, useful, hard to criticize.

The woman who alphabetized deeds and records because paper made more sense than people, and order was easier than grief.

My throat tightens unexpectedly.

I did not think this would hurt quite this much.

There’s a soft knock against the open door.

Grandma.

I turn, and the minute I see her face, all composed sympathy and sharp understanding, the pressure behind my ribs shifts dangerously.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically.

Her brows lift.

I let out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “All right. That was obviously a lie.”

“An unconvincing one,” she agrees. She steps into the room and closes the door behind her. “Are you really leaving tonight?”

I look around once more.

The answer is yes before I say it.

“Yes.”

She nods, but I catch the flicker of sadness in her eyes.

That nearly undoes me.

“I don’t want to leave you here with him,” I say quietly.

“My darling girl.” Her voice softens. “You are not responsible for managing your uncle.”

I look away. “I know that.”

“Do you?”

I swallow.

Because if I’m honest, some part of me always has believed it. That if I just kept things neat enough, calm enough, reasonable enough, I could absorb the sharp edges before they cut anyone else.

Grandma comes closer and smooths a hand over my hair, tucking a loose strand behind my ear the way she used to when I was little.

“You do not owe your life to other people’s bitterness,” she says.