Nine years later.
The house on Maple Crescent is quieter now.
Not haunted.
Not breathing.
Just old.
Ivy Vale is seventeen.
She doesn't remember her brother's voice.
Not clearly.
Sometimes she thinks she does — usually during storms.
When lightning flashes, she still waits for someone to say:
The sky's taking pictures.
But no one does.
The Velveteen Rabbit sits on her shelf.
It used to be Leonard's favorite.
Her mother can't look at it.
Her father doesn't go into Ivy's room anymore.
Grief didn't destroy them.
It hollowed them.
There's a difference.
Tonight, Ivy sits at her desk with her laptop open.
Rain taps against the window.
She doesn't know why she typed it.
Maybe because the house felt heavy.
Maybe because she misses something she can't fully name.
In the search bar she writes:
"Leonard Vale story"
And she finds it.
This.
These chapters.
These words.
You.
Her fingers tremble as she scrolls.
Her eyes widen at the hospital scene.
At the coma.
At the goodbye.
She doesn't remember telling anyone about the lightning.
Or the storm pictures.
Or the way she used to crawl into his bed.
No one could have known that.
Unless—
Unless he was still somewhere.
She starts crying quietly.
Not violently.
Not dramatically.
Just soft tears falling onto the keyboard.
"You idiot," she whispers through a broken smile.
"You dramatic, stupid idiot."
Her chest hurts.
Because reading this feels like hearing his voice again.
And for a second—
She isn't alone.