Invisible Strings II

Chapter 4: A Flicker

Instead, the set sat pristine, untouched, a monument to a future that slipped through her fingers.

Isadora closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead hard, as if she could press the ache back into her skull. "She's not dead," she whispered to herself, stern, quiet, almost scolding. "Just gone. Safe. Living her life."

And she meant it. Mostly.

She turned off the bedroom light. The thought of climbing onto that empty, waiting mattress made her chest feel too tight, so she returned to the living room instead. The fire had warmed the space, casting soft gold against the walls.

She pulled the throw blanket from the back of the couch, shook the imaginary dust from it, and lowered herself onto the cushions. The fabric smelled faintly of cedar and faintly of the life she'd once planned here.

Curling onto her side, she tugged the blanket up to her shoulders.

The cottage creaked around her. Wind whispered against the windows. The fire crackled, steady and warm.

For the first time since she'd arrived, Isadora let her body relax. Just a little. Just enough to sleep.

And in the quiet, in the snow-wrapped world outside, she felt truly alone, but for tonight, she accepted it.

‿︵˓ʚ♡ɞ˓︵‿

Morning

The motel room was still gray with early light when Hannah blinked awake. No alarm. No noise from the hall. Just the hum again... soft, low, threading through her thoughts like it had been waiting for her to surface.

She exhaled slowly, pressing her palms over her eyes. It didn't startle her anymore. It never did. It was just... there. As familiar as an ache she'd stopped trying to soothe.

The air was cold enough that her breath fogged faintly. Winter storm winds rattled the thin motel window, snow stacking against the glass in uneven sheets. The world outside was a muted white, everything softened and swallowed by the weather.

Hannah sat up, pulling her sweater tighter around herself. Her bag rested at the foot of the bed. Half-packed, half-ignored. And seeing it made something steady settle inside her chest. Right. She had a plan. She just needed to follow it. She slipped out of bed, wincing at the icy floor, and crossed to the window. The parking lot below was buried in fresh snow, but her car sat there, her lifeline, already dusted but not yet trapped.

Good. She'd gotten here before the worst of it.

She checked the weather on her phone:

Severe winter storm advisory. Road conditions poor. Visibility low.

Hannah's jaw tensed, but she didn't put the phone down.

A normal person would wait this out. A normal person would go home, curl up with a blanket, pretend they hadn't driven hours because the echo of a stranger's name made their heart ache.

But Hannah wasn't normal. She knew that now more than ever.

And she couldn't shake the truth forming quietly, insistently; she had to keep going.

She reached for her coat, pulling it on with a slow breath. The hum fluttered somewhere beneath her ribs, soft, urging, familiar in a way that both soothed and unsettled her.

The front steps are nearly swallowed by snow by the time Hannah forces the motel door shut behind her. The morning air is sharp enough to sting her teeth, a different kind of cold than last night, brighter, meaner. She hitches her bag higher onto her shoulder and starts trudging toward her car, boots disappearing with each step.