Chapter 52 Fading footsteps
Hannah
I ended up staying at Sienna’s place far longer than I’d intended.
Time there had a way of loosening its grip, stretching and folding in on itself until hours felt like minutes and minutes felt like nothing at all. We did everything and nothing, curled up on opposite ends of the couch scrolling through our phones, then abandoning them to talk about absolutely everything. We napped at odd intervals, baked a lopsided batch of cookies that came out too soft in the middle and too dark at the edges, and argued about whether they were still edible (they were; we ate them anyway).
At some point, the sky outside shifted from pale afternoon to dusky blue, and I found myself sinking deeper into the couch cushions, Momo curled between us, his tiny body warm against my thigh.
I hesitated.
“Maybe… I could just sleep here tonight,” I said lightly, too lightly, staring very intently at a crack in the ceiling. “If that’s okay.”
Sienna didn’t even pretend to buy it. She turned her head slowly and fixed me with a look, one brow raised, lips pressed together in that way that said she knew me far too well.
“Hannah,” she said gently. “You didn’t bring anything. Not clothes, not a toothbrush, not even a charger.”
“I can borrow…”
“You’re avoiding,” she cut in, not unkindly. “And I get it. But you don’t need to run away tonight.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Momo shifted, letting out a small huff.
“We’ll do a proper sleepover soon,” she added, nudging my knee. “With snacks. And pajamas. And zero emotional dodging.”
I groaned. “You’re insufferably perceptive.”
“I know.” She smiled, softer now. “Go home. Text me when you get there.”
We hugged long and tight by the door, her arms warm and grounding. I breathed her in, familiar detergent, vanilla lotion and for a moment, the tightness in my chest eased.
Then I left.
The drive home was quiet. The city lights blurred past the window as Momo sat upright beside me, nose pressed curiously to the glass, his tail giving the occasional uncertain wag. I watched his reflection instead of my own.
True to his word, Timothy wasn’t home.
The house felt larger because of it, too quiet, too orderly. The air held that hollow stillness that came when one person was missing, even if they hadn’t been present much to begin with.
I fed Momo, changed into something comfortable, and went through the motions of an evening routine that felt oddly heavy. I kept glancing at my phone, then at the door, then back at the phone.
He didn’t come back.
I went to bed telling myself I hadn’t expected him to. Telling myself it didn’t matter.
Sleep came fast and deep, dragging me under before my thoughts could tangle any further.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I stirred.
Momo was barking, soft, insistent little sounds, more alert than alarmed. My eyes fluttered open just in time to see my bedroom door easing shut, the click of it impossibly quiet.
I frowned drowsily, my mind too fogged to form questions. Maybe a guard. Maybe Lisa. Maybe I’d imagined it.
“Momo,” I murmured, reaching out blindly. He quieted instantly, curling back against my side.
And I fell asleep again.
Morning came pale and slow.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains, and for a moment I lay still, listening to the house wake up,the distant clink of dishes, muted footsteps, the hum of life continuing whether I participated in it or not.
I decided to take Momo for a short walk around the side of the property. Nothing dramatic. Just air. Space.
I clipped the leash on him and headed downstairs.
That was when I heard Timothy’s voice.
It floated down the corridor in low, measured, unmistakable tones.
I stiffened instantly, my body reacting before my mind caught up. Without thinking, I pivoted and slipped out the side door just as footsteps rounded the corner behind me.
Outside, the air was cool and fresh. Momo yipped happily, tugging at the leash as if the world were brand new and wonderful and not at all complicated.
“Okay, okay,” I laughed softly, letting him lead for a few steps.
We walked along the edge of the property, gravel crunching under my shoes. I greeted a few staff members as we passed; they smiled politely, some crouching to greet Momo, who accepted the attention like he’d always belonged here.
A guard trailed at a respectful distance.
My mind wandered despite myself, back to Sienna’s living room, to the warmth of shared grief and shared laughter, to the quiet hope I’d foolishly carried home with me.
When we returned to the house, I cut through the corridor toward the stairs.
“Hannah,” Lisa called from the dining room. “Will you be joining us for breakfast?”
I paused.
Timothy sat at the table.
I felt his gaze lift, felt it settle on me like a weight. I didn’t look back.
“No,” I said calmly, lifting my chin. “I’ll have breakfast upstairs. For me and Momo.”
Lisa hesitated, then nodded. “Of course.”
I walked away without glancing back, my steps steady even as something in my chest twisted.
Upstairs, I showered and dressed lightly, pulling my hair back and breathing through the residual tightness. I texted Sienna, telling her to take the day off, insisting the shelter would manage just fine.
She replied with a pouty emoji and a reluctant agreement.
Lisa brought breakfast up. I thanked her, fed Momo alongside myself, and tried to focus on the ordinary comfort of food.
When she came to clear the tray, I stood at the mirror, combing my hair into a ponytail.
Footsteps approached.
They stopped outside my door.
I froze.
Every muscle in my body went taut, breath caught halfway in. I stared at my own reflection, heart thudding loud enough that I was sure he could hear it through the wood.
There was silence.
Then the footsteps moved on, fading down the hall.
I sagged forward, bracing my hands on the vanity, and let out a long, shaky breath.
“What is wrong with you?” I whispered to my reflection, pressing my face briefly into my hands.
I had no answer.