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Less than ten seconds later, the phone rings in my hand.

"Hello?"

For a second, there's only breathing.

Then—

"Astra?" His voice cracks around the second syllable, relief so raw and immediate it steals the air out of my lungs before I can answer.

"I'm here."

"Jesus Christ." The words come out shredded, nothing like the composed, unshakeable man I said yes to in that garden six weeks ago. "I thought you were dead."

Guilt crashes into me with enough force that I have to press my hand flat against the mattress to hold myself upright.

"I'm so sorry."

"I've called every hospital in the tristate area.” His voice climbs, quick and clipped. “I talked to detectives. Your parents filed a missing person's report."

I press my fingers against my forehead. "I didn’t mean for you all to worry about me."

"What did you think we'd think?" It isn’t a shout. It doesn’t need to be.

"I don't know."

"No." I hear him pacing somewhere on his end, footsteps against hardwood. "You don't get to say you don't know. You vanished without so much as a phone call. No text. Nothing."

"I left a note."

He continues like he didn’t hear me. "I woke up every morning wondering if today was the day someone was going to have to identify your body."

The words hit me like a physical blow, and I flinch even though he can’t see it.

"I'm sorry."

"I don't want another apology." He says it tired, not cruel, like he’s already used up every version of angry he had in him days ago.

Silence stretches between us. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

"Are you safe?"

"Yes."

"Are you alone?"

"Yes."

Another pause, longer this time.

"Where are you?"

"I'm in Pennsylvania."

"Pennsylvania?" He says it like the word itself is a betrayal.

"A small town called Ashbourne."

He repeats the name softly, as though committing it to memory.