The storm hadn't stopped screaming.
Rain slashed against the steel windows, hissing down the glass like a living thing. Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance low, angry, as if echoing the chaos that still trembled inside Isabella.
The safehouse was quiet otherwise, too quiet.
She sat curled on the couch, wearing one of Sebastian's shirts that hung loose on her shoulders. The scent of him lingered cedar, smoke, something sharp and clean. The warmth of it felt like a memory of safety she couldn't quite touch.
Her fingers traced slow circles across her stomach. A subtle, fragile movement stirred beneath her skin a reminder that even after all the destruction, something inside her was still alive.
She whispered softly, almost to herself, "We made it, little one."
The room's only light came from the flickering fire. It painted the walls gold and shadowed the corners in warmth that couldn't quite chase away the ghosts.
