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Rhett goes still. Even after everything…

The word still carries weight.

Father. His. Sayer's.

I look between them. And I realize something. The universe gave us 15 missing years. It does not get another day.

"We'll figure out what paperwork is needed."

Sayer looks down.

"You really mean it?"

I frown.

"What?"

"That you're not going to disappear."

The question is quiet. Almost casual. Which makes it worse. Because casual questions often hide the deepest fears. I get up. Walk around the table. And kneel beside him.

"I spent so many years believing I lost you."

His eyes lift.

"I know."

"No."

"I don't think you do."

My voice cracks.

"I looked for answers where there weren't any. I built a career helping other people deal with abandonment because I couldn't understand my own."

I take his hand.

"But I am here now."

A tear slips down his face.

"I know."

"And I'm not leaving."

He nods. Not because he suddenly believes everything. Because he wants to. And that's enough.

Later that morning, I reopen Hollow Truths. The dashboard loads instantly. No glitches.

No interference. No disappearing messages. Just a normal website. Normal feels like a miracle.

I scroll through scheduled posts. Thousands of messages wait. People needing advice. People looking for answers. People asking strangers on the internet to tell them what they already know.

I used to think that was my purpose. Giving clarity. Finding patterns. Solving emotional mysteries. But now I understand something I never understood before. Sometimes clarity isn't an answer. Sometimes it is a person.

I open a new post. My fingers hover over the keyboard. I consider writing something about the investigation. About the disappearances. About the Hollow. About everything that happened. Then I stop.

Some truths belong to the world. Some belong to the people who survived them. Instead, I write: