Page 19 of Ashen Souls

“I won’t.”

“Good.” He retreated into the hallway before the conversation could tip into dangerous territory.

Chloe replaced him a second later. Her ponytail was immaculate, her eyeliner untouched by tragedy, and her phone was already angled in her hand. At fifteen, she was terrifyingly fashionable and operated under the illusion that her entire life was content.

“Can I do a video called ‘Nurse Sister Saves the Day,’” she asked, “where I bring you tea and you cry?”

“No,” my mother called from the hallway without missing a beat. “And put that phone away.”

Chloe rolled her eyes but lowered the phone, dropping onto the mattress. She grabbed my hand, squeezing it so hard my knuckles ground together. “Are you okay?”

I looked at her properly then, at the faint crease between her brows that she probably didn’t realize was there.

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

We all agreed to believe it.

When my mother returned with my cracked phone and a mug of chamomile, she placed them on the nightstand.

“Rest.” She smoothed the blanket over my legs, tucking the edges tight as if to lock me in place. “Dinner in a couple of hours.”

My father stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, surveying the room as if he’d been assigned to guard it. “We’ll be in the kitchen. Call if you need anything.”

“I will,” I promised.

They left my door cracked open. The house settled back into its usual rhythm: footsteps in the hall, dishes clinking in the kitchen, the muffled, comforting murmur of my parents’ voices.

A few minutes later, my phone buzzed.

Harper: You home?

Me: Unfortunately. Under parental surveillance.

Harper: Tragic. You alive though?

Me: Still breathing. Very inconvenient.

Harper: Selfish. I was fully prepared to start planning my eulogy.

Me: Get in line.

Harper: Rest. Eat something. Text me if the universe starts acting weird again.

Me: That’s oddly specific.

Harper: I know you.

I set the phone face down on the nightstand, buried my head in the pillows, and finally let the exhaustion win.

At some point, I drifted—not fully asleep, just dipping in and out of awareness. When I opened my eyes, nothing had changed. Afternoon light still striped the floor. The tea had gone untouched, its steam long vanished.

Dinner was soup, bread, and the exaggerated caution of passing plates. My mother fidgeted with a dish towel she didn’t need. My father asked neutral questions about traffic and weather as though those subjects were structurally safe. Chloe filled gaps with stories from school. Matt focused on his food.

I listened more than I spoke. Each movement required more effort than it should have. By the time I pushed my bowl away, my hands trembled faintly.

My mother noticed. “Bed,” she said gently.

For once, I didn’t push back.