Chapter one hundred and thirteen

Chapter one hundred and thirteen
Vivienne & Emeline

The night presses in heavier than before. The lamps throw long shadows across the walls, distorting furniture into strange shapes. Vivienne can’t stop staring at the warped silhouette of the grandfather clock in the corner—it looks more like a figure watching them than a timekeeper.

Emeline hasn’t moved from the floor. Her head still rests against Vivienne’s knee, but her body is rigid, as though sleep won’t come near her.

“Do you hear it?” she murmurs suddenly.

Vivienne’s throat tightens. “Hear what?”

“The ticking,” Emeline says. Her eyes flick toward the clock, wide and glassy. “It’s louder than it should be. It’s like it’s keeping time for something else. Not for us.”

Vivienne listens. At first, there is only silence. Then—tick, tick, tick. Too sharp. Too deliberate. She feels her skin prickle.

“It’s only the clock,” she manages. But the words taste thin.

Emeline lifts her head, studying her with unnerving intensity. “You always say that. ‘It’s only.’ But it’s never only, is it?”

Vivienne forces her hands into her lap to keep from trembling. “You’re tired.”

“No.” Emeline’s voice hardens. “I’m awake. More awake than I’ve ever been. And so are you. That’s why you can’t sleep.”

The accusation lodges between them, sharp and undeniable. Vivienne looks toward the window, where the glass reflects their shapes. But in the reflection, Emeline seems closer, her outline bleeding into Vivienne’s own—two figures blurred into one.

Vivienne shuts her eyes, as if that might undo it.

“Stay with me,” Emeline whispers. Not pleading, not demanding—something in between. A command wrapped in desperation.

Vivienne nods. She doesn’t trust herself to speak.

And so they remain in the half-light, side by side in a silence that feels alive, as though the house itself were holding its breath, waiting for them to finally break.