The cabin door creaks open, the sound splitting the stillness like a wound being torn apart. I don't look back. I can't. My feet drag against the floor as Joel leads me out, his hand firm on my arm, like he's afraid I might turn around and run back inside. The air outside is sharp and cold, the morning light cutting through the trees. I squint against it, feeling like I've been underground for weeks, not hours. The cabin sits behind us, a dark silhouette against the pale dawn. I swear I can still hear it humming—a faint, rhythmic sound, like it's breathing. Joel guides me toward the truck, his movements careful, his voice low. "Come on, Adam. We're going home." The word catches in my mind—home. I don't even know what that is anymore. Is it the cabin? The apartment we picked out together, where her laughter used to echo off the walls? Without Lily, nothing feels like home. Not the creaking floorboards of the cabin, not the couch we spent nights curled up on, not even my own skin. I feel hollow, like a ship drifting without an anchor, caught between places that no longer mean anything. The thought settles heavy in my chest as Joel opens the truck door, waiting for me to climb in. I don't argue. I let him open the passenger door and ease me inside, my limbs heavy, my mind frayed and loose. As the truck rumbles to life, the vibration shakes through me, too loud, too real. Joel climbs in, glancing at me before shifting the gear into reverse. The cabin shrinks in the rearview mirror as we pull away, but I can't stop staring at it. It feels alive, even as it fades into the trees—watching me, waiting. "She's still here," I whisper, my voice barely audible. My fingers tremble against the window as I look out, searching the woods. Shadows ripple between the trunks, too fast, too fluid to be real. In the distance, I see it. The rabbit. It stands on the edge of the tree line, pristine and black, its eyes reflecting the morning light. For a moment, I think I see Lily's face there again—her eyes, sad and pleading. Then the rabbit turns and disappears into the woods, swallowed by shadow. I blink hard, my breath catching in my throat. "She's still here," I whisper again, pressing my forehead to the glass. "She's still here." Joel says nothing. He grips the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles white. I don't know if he can hear me, or if he's just pretending not to. The road twists and turns through the woods, and every shadow looks like a shape. Every branch like a hand reaching for me. The drive out of the forest stretches on endlessly, but eventually, the trees thin out, replaced by empty fields and the first signs of civilization—gas stations, blinking stoplights, cars passing us on the highway. I keep my eyes on the window, trying to ignore the whispers curling at the edges of my mind, faint but persistent. Joel breaks the silence softly. "We're almost there, Adam." I don't answer. I'm afraid to speak. I don't know if the whispers will come out instead. The hospital rises up like a fortress against the horizon—white walls and narrow windows, sterile and unyielding. I tense as we pull into the lot, the sight of it tugging at something deep inside me. It's familiar, but I don't know why. Joel parks the truck and turns off the engine. For a moment, we sit in silence, the ticking of the cooling engine the only sound. Joel turns to me, his voice quiet, cautious. "Adam… you're going to be okay." I finally look at him. He looks worn, his face pale, his eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion. "I don't remember being here before," I say, my voice hoarse. Joel nods, his gaze steady. "I know. But you have been. And it helped you last time. It'll help you again." I want to argue, to tell him he's wrong, but the fight has left me. My chest feels hollow, the grief pressing against my ribs like a weight I can't lift. I let him open my door, let him lead me inside. The hallway is too bright. My shoes squeak against the linoleum floors, the sound sharp and jarring in the silence. Nurses move around me in soft shoes and white coats, their voices low, their eyes careful as they pass. Joel speaks quietly to someone at the front desk, but I can't focus on the words. My head swims, fragments of memories flashing like broken glass: A hospital bed. White sheets. A notebook in my lap, my handwriting scrawled across the pages. "Write it down, Adam. Remind yourself." Joel sitting beside me, his voice a low murmur. My vision blurs. I grip the edge of the counter to steady myself. A nurse appears beside me, her face soft and smiling, but her eyes are unreadable. "Adam?" she says gently. "Let's get you settled, okay?" Joel touches my shoulder. "I'll be right here." I nod, though I can barely feel my body anymore. Everything is distant, as if I'm watching myself from somewhere far away. The room is small and white. The bed looks too clean, too perfect, like no one's ever used it. I sink onto the edge of the mattress, my limbs heavy, my head pounding. The nurse hands me a small paper cup with two pills inside, her expression patient and calm. "These will help," she says. I don't argue. I swallow them down with a sip of water, my throat dry and tight. The world tilts slightly as the nurse adjusts something on a clipboard, her voice fading into a hum. I sit still on the bed, staring at the white floor tiles, each one perfectly square, perfectly clean. My hands rest in my lap, empty and shaking faintly. I feel hollow. The door creaks open behind me, followed by the soft shuffle of footsteps. "Mr. Whitlock?" a nurse's voice says quietly to someone in the hall. I hear Joel's voice respond, low and muffled, like he doesn't want to wake me. "We'll get those injuries cleaned up," the nurse whispers, her tone soft but careful. "It looks like you took quite the beating." My chest tightens. Joel mumbles something, but I don't hear the words. The sound fades, replaced by a sharp pressure in my ribs—a knot twisting deeper with every passing second. I don't need to see Joel's face to know what she meant. The bruise on his temple. The cuts on his wrists where the rope bit into his skin. The exhaustion in his voice every time he spoke to me in that basement. I did that. My stomach turns, my breathing shaky as I stare harder at the floor. The nurse's words replay in my head, over and over. "We'll get those injuries cleaned up." I squeeze my eyes shut, tears burning hot at the edges of my vision. I think of Joel's arms wrapped around me in the basement, the steady thud of his heartbeat as I sobbed into his chest. He didn't let go. He didn't push me away, even after everything I'd done. And I did this to him. The walls feel like they're pressing closer again, sterile and suffocating. I press a hand to my face, trying to breathe through the weight in my chest. "I'm sorry," I whisper to no one. My voice cracks on the words. "I'm so sorry." The door clicks shut softly, the sound barely audible. I don't move. I don't look up. I just sit there, letting the guilt settle in my bones like lead. The next few days blur together. I wake up to see Joel sitting in the chair beside my bed, asleep, his head resting in his hands. He looks like he hasn't slept in days. A doctor's voice echoes as she speaks to me, though I can't catch the words. I see the journals again—my journals—stacked neatly on a table. The writing inside is mine, every word an anchor I don't remember creating. Stay away from the cabin. A nurse hands me a notebook and a pen. "Write it down," she says softly. "Anything you need to remember." I don't remember sleeping. I don't remember waking. Everything feels dreamlike, broken apart by flashes of color and sound: Joel's voice, Lily's face, the rabbit's eyes. I press the pen to the paper, my hand trembling as I write the first thing that comes to mind. She's still here. The words look small, scrawled and uneven on the page. I stare at them, the ink still wet, the letters already smudged under my thumb. My throat tightens. I swallow hard, pressing the pen down again, carving out another line beneath the first: I don't know who I am without her. The tears come before I realize it, hot and silent, blurring the edges of the page. One drop lands on the paper, spreading into the ink like a stain, pulling the words apart. I let it happen. I let myself cry because there's nothing else left to do. Somewhere outside the room, a faint voice calls over the intercom, too far away to hear. I think of Joel—how he sat by my bed, how his hands must've ached after I tied them so tight. He didn't have to stay with me here, but he did. My vision swims, my pen hovering above the page. Finally, I write one last thing, the words small and fragile: I'm sorry, Joel. I close the notebook gently, like I'm afraid it might break. My hands tremble as I hold it in my lap, staring at the cover, my tears still falling silently. Without the voices to fill the silence, without Lily's presence to ground me, and with Joel asleep beside me, the emptiness is unbearable. The quiet presses against me, heavy and suffocating, like the world has folded in on itself and left me adrift in the void. And for the first time, I feel truly alone.