Mara sat on the attic floor, the knife at her side, its rusty blade dull in the growing dawn light.
The ash was gone—swept away by a breeze she couldn't feel, leaving the boards clean, the burlap scrap a crumpled heap by the trunk.
Her shoulder ached, a steady pulse under the torn jacket, and the scar on her arm was still, a pale line etched into her skin.
The house was silent, its groans and shudders replaced by a calm that felt fragile, like glass waiting to crack.
She'd done it—faced him, reclaimed Ellie, ended the nightmare. The weight of her guilt, her father's twisted echo, had dissolved with the ash, and Ellie's voice—I'm already here—warmed the hollow she'd carried for years.
She was whole, or as close to it as she could be, the pieces of her past stitched back with something stronger than fear.
But the quiet gnawed at her, a void where Ellie's cries had been, and she couldn't shake the sense that something lingered.
The phone buzzed, a single, soft hum.
Mara's breath caught, her eyes snapping to the rotary.
It sat still, its cord limp, the receiver on the hook—yet the sound trembled through the attic, faint but unmistakable.
She hesitated, her hand hovering, the memory of Ellie's last words pulling her forward.
She needed this—one final goodbye, a chance to seal the wound. She lifted the receiver, pressing it to her ear, her voice a whisper. "Ellie?"
"Mara," Ellie replied, clear and steady, no trace of static or panic. "It's me. I just… I wanted to see you one more time."
Tears welled in Mara's eyes, spilling over before she could stop them. "I thought you were gone. You said—"
"I am," Ellie said, gentle, like a breeze through the trees. "But I couldn't leave without this. You did it, Mara—you saved us. He's gone, and I'm free. I wanted you to know that."
Mara clutched the phone, her chest tight. "I'm sorry—for forgetting you, for leaving you with him. I didn't know how to—"
"Stop," Ellie interrupted, firm but kind. "You didn't leave me. You survived. That's what I needed you to do—what we needed. I was always part of you, even when you couldn't see it. Now you can."
The attic blurred through her tears, the dawn light softening the edges of the room.
"I feel you," Mara said, her voice breaking. "Like a piece I didn't know was missing. But it hurts—letting you go."
"It won't," Ellie promised, her tone fading slightly. "Not forever. You're stronger now—whole. You don't need me to fight anymore. Just… live, okay? For both of us."
Mara nodded, though Ellie couldn't see it, a sob catching in her throat. "I will. I promise."
"Good," Ellie said, her voice barely a whisper now, slipping away. "I love you, Mara. Always did."
"I love you too," Mara choked out, but the line was silent, the hum gone, the connection severed.
She lowered the receiver, setting it back on the hook, and let the tears fall, hot and steady, washing the ash from her hands.
The attic felt lighter, the air cleaner, as if Ellie's words had lifted a veil she hadn't known was there.
She stood, wincing at the pain in her shoulder, and crossed to the trunk.
The burlap scrap lay crumpled, blank now, no initials, no stitches—just fabric, worn and ordinary.
She picked it up, running her fingers over it, then dropped it back, shutting the lid with a soft thud.
The phone stayed silent, its cord coiled, a relic of a battle won.
Mara descended the ladder, her steps slow but sure, the house unfolding below her—broken but still standing.
The dining room table was upright again, the diary closed, its pages smooth and unmarked.
The kitchen window hung open, the fog thinning outside, the shed a muted shape in the yard, its door shut tight.
She paused, her hand on the frame, and felt it—Ellie, not as a voice, but a warmth, a quiet strength woven into her bones.
She stepped outside, the cold air sharp against her face, and locked the door behind her.
The key turned easily, the click final, and she slipped it into her pocket, her breath fogging in the dawn.
The car waited by the curb, its engine coughing to life as she started it, the sound grounding her in the now.
She didn't look back—not at the house, not at the shed. She'd faced it, all of it, and she was done.
As she pulled away, the radio flickered on, static humming low, and for a heartbeat, she swore she heard her name—soft, distant, a final echo.
She smiled, faint and tired, and turned it off, the road stretching ahead, empty and hers.