The next morning arrived veiled in fog. The Hollow stood still as if it, too, were recovering from what had passed. The house no longer whispered, no longer watched—yet the silence wasn't comfort. It was waiting.
Lyra walked alone through the garden paths, her coat pulled tight against the damp. The soil near the graves was dark and soft, newly turned. Where the cradle tree once stood, a fresh sprout had broken through the earth. Pale and slender. Reaching for light.
She paused and touched its leaves. A chill pulsed through her fingertips, but not malice—just memory.
"Elira," she whispered. "You're part of this place. You always were."
Behind her, Elias stepped into view. "And now you are, too."
---
They returned to the library to seal the vault. Elias had re-etched the symbols, reinforcing the binding with salt, iron, and the old words from the Vale rites.
"Even if she's gone," he said, "this house doesn't forget."
"I know," Lyra said. "But maybe… it doesn't need to be afraid of remembering anymore."
They packed away the journals and closed the family records. Lyra held one parchment back—the torn letter in her mother's hand.
She couldn't save her, it said.
Maybe Lyra hadn't either. But she'd seen her. Heard her. Shared something deeper than blood.
Maybe that was enough.
---
By evening, the Hollow looked almost like a home again. A place broken but healing. Lyra lit the candles in the hall herself, choosing warm light over shadow.
She paused by the grand mirror, the one above the stairs. Her face stared back, tired but whole.
Then, in the reflection, she saw Elias.
"Are you staying?" she asked.
"For a while," he said. "If you'll have me."
Lyra smiled softly. "You stayed when it mattered. I'm not sending you away now."
He nodded. "Then we keep watch. Just in case."
She didn't say it aloud, but she felt it in her bones.
The Hollow might sleep—but it never truly let go.