Page 81 of What Remains

"I've spent enough nights awake in hospitals. A few hours watching windows won't kill me."

No one pushed. Doors were checked, curtains drawn, and weapons placed within reach. Just another night.

Liz was the first to stand. "Come on. I'll show everyone where they're sleeping."

She led them upstairs, past family photographs still lining the hallway—school portraits, Christmas mornings, horse shows, Josies wedding photo. She she stoped to look at it, they were all pieces of a life that had simply stopped.

Liz assigned Jay and Cara the front guest room, explaining, "It stays the warmest." Then, opening a door farther down the hall, she looked at Seth.

"The back bedroom. It used to be Grandma Evelyn's."

A handmade quilt stretched neatly across the bed, and an old rocking chair sat beside the window. Seth nodded slowly, the hard line of his jaw softening for just a moment. "It'll do just fine."

Finally, Liz stopped at the last bedroom and opened the door.

Josies old bedroom exactly as she left it when they visited in the spring last year.

Layla ran straight to the bed and bounced on the old quilt. "Mommy! Can I sleep here?"

Josie laughed through the lump in her throat. "I think that can be arranged."

Liz squeezed her shoulder. "See you in the morning."

One by one, the lights went out. Josie helped Layla brush her teeth with warmed kettle water, then tucked her beneath the thick quilt.

"Tell me funny stories about Grandpa tomorrow?" Layla asked sleepily.

A familiar ache tightened in Josie's chest. "I will."

"And Grandma too?"

"I promise."

"I wish they were here,” Layla said around a yawn.

"So do I, baby."

Within minutes, her daughter's breathing evened out into deep sleep.. Josie stayed beside the bed, listening and thinking. This room held every version of herself: the little girl, the teenager, the medical student home for Christmas, the newlywed on Mark's arm. The mother who had introduced Layla to her grandparents.

Now, the widow.

She stared out the window into the dark. She'd cried until she believed no tears remained. And then she'd kissed another man. She could still remember the roughness of his jaw, the way his hands had trembled against her face, careful, as if she were something he could lose. As if he might.

In the truck that morning, she'd told him they shouldn't explore it. The sensible choice. The responsible one.

But sensible choices belonged to a world that no longer existed. Tomorrow held no promises. Neither did next week. Hell—neither did the next hour. And she didn't want to spend whatever hours remained pretending she hadn't come alive under his touch.

She rose quietly, tucked the quilt tighter around Layla, and brushed a kiss across her forehead.

"I love you."

Layla murmured something and burrowed into the pillow.

Josie slipped into the hallway. The farmhouse was silent, save for the occasional pop of the woodstove below. With each step toward his door, her heart beat harder.

She stopped outside it, her hand hovering over the wood. She could still turn around, go back to bed, pretend today never happened.

But her pulse was a frantic knock against her ribs.