The barn door opens. Closes.
Her car starts. Gravel crunches beneath the tires. The engine fades, swallowed by distance.
And then I'm alone.
In the silence I used to crave.
In the space I thought I could control.
Tomorrow, will she come back? Will her mug be beside mine? Will there be toast crumbs on the table, sketches on napkins, her playlists looping through the air?
Or will the barn be sterile again?
Orderly. Controlled. Empty.
Some kinds of quiet are worse than any noise.
And the truth I buried has cost me the one thing I never saw coming, the woman who made me want to be someone worth redeeming.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MADDY
I wake with the echo of shattering glass in my ears, the dream clinging to me, sharp and vivid enough to yank me upright, heart racing, pajamas soaked with sweat.
In the dream, I stood in a town square I didn't recognize. Quaint little shops lined the streets, their signs hand-painted and charming, like something from a forgotten postcard. At the center stood a workshop, its windows filled with shimmering glass sculptures that caught the light.
Then Mason appeared.
He didn't look at me, only stared at the workshop in that same charcoal suit he wore the day he arrived, his expression unreadable. He gave the smallest nod, and the windows imploded. The sculptures shattered.
He never flinched.
His shark. Mrs. Patterson's voice loops in my mind like a warning I didn't want to hear.
The words follow me into morning. Sunlight cuts across my quilt, bright and warm, and wrong against the cold dread lodged in my chest.
I don't linger. No hiding under the covers. No doom-scrolling. No rereading texts I already wish I hadn't sent.
I shower. Pull on jeans and a sweater, easy, familiar. Nothing that requires effort. Nothing he hasn't seen.
I skip the bakery.
It was never about the croissants.
It was always about him.
And now he's gone.
I don't want to go to the barn. Not today. Maybe not ever again. But I will. Because Savvy and Ivy are counting on me. Because I said I'd show up.
So I drive the same road I've driven every day, the one that used to feel like coming home. Today, it feels heavier.
The air still smells like sawdust and old roses, but now there's a trace beneath it, a presence I can't name. A ghost of smoke, maybe. Or the residue of what burned too hot and fast.
This place used to be mine.
My sanctuary. My mess. My magic.
