Rain tapped softly against the apartment window.
Anderson stood at the kitchen counter, loading rounds into a pistol with mechanical precision. Magazine in. Check. Slide back. Check.
The bottle beside the sink was unopened.
That alone would have surprised anyone who knew him a year earlier.
She had changed that.
No more waking up half dressed on the floor. No more whiskey for breakfast. No more drowning faces he could not forget.
She had made him believe there could be a version of life after Nine.
Now she was dead.
They said suicide.
Anderson knew better.
She had plans for next week. Groceries in the fridge. Laundry folded on the couch. A note reminding him to call Mia about school.
People planning tomorrow did not kill themselves today.
The knock came once.
Then the door opened.
Molly entered like she belonged there.
He did not turn.
"I'm busy."
"Sit down."
"I said I'm busy."
Her voice sharpened.
"Sit the fuck down, Anderson."
He turned then, pistol still in hand.
His eyes were bloodshot but dry.
"I do not have time for him tonight."
"This is not about Nine."
That made him pause.
Molly stepped closer, gaze moving briefly to the unopened bottle.
She noticed everything.
"You loved her," she said.
Anderson's jaw tightened.
"Careful."
"She was talking to law enforcement."
The room went still.
"No."
"She was building a case. On you first. Then higher."
"No."
Molly did not raise her voice.
"I confirmed it myself."
He shook his head once, slow, like he could dislodge the words.
"You're lying."
"She wanted to save you," Molly said quietly. "She thought if she gave them enough, they would spare you."
Anderson's grip loosened on the pistol.
"She would never."
"She already did."
He stared at her.
Then the real question found its way out.
"What did you do."
Molly held his gaze.
"What had to be done."
The pistol slipped from his hand and hit the floor.
The sound was small.
Anderson backed into the counter as if struck. His breathing turned shallow. Fast.
"No."
His face broke before the tears came.
"No no no no."
Then everything in him collapsed at once.
He bent forward, hands over his face, sobbing with the helpless violence of someone too strong to survive grief cleanly.
"Why."
Molly crossed the room and knelt in front of him.
She placed one hand at the back of his head and drew him toward her.
He did not resist.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
His shoulders shook.
"Why."
"You know why."
"I loved her."
"I know."
"You killed her."
Silence.
Then, softly:
"I saved you."
He made a sound that did not belong to language.
She held him tighter.
Rain continued against the glass.
Anderson knelt in the cemetery, years later, in front of Molly's grave.
Head lowered.
Hands hanging uselessly between his knees.
In the exact same position.
This time there was no one left to hold him.