Chapter 98. I Want to Be Here

S:

The food sits warm in my stomach by the time I finish. My limbs ache from the day, but it’s the kind of exhaustion I’ve missed. The honest kind. The kind that comes after building something.

Not breaking it.

I gather the plate and utensils, bring them to the sink, and roll up my sleeves. The water runs hot. Steam curls up from the basin as I scrub, the familiar rhythm grounding me. A small pot, two mugs, a chopping board, a pan coated with the dried edge of broth—she made more than she ate.

I take my time.

Her sponge smells faintly of lemon. The soap, lavender. Everything here carries her fingerprint. Her softness. Even the dishrack is carefully arranged. It’s not like my place—cold steel and glass. Here, the plates are mismatched. Lived in. Some chipped. All clean.

Once done, I dry my hands on a towel and glance toward the hallway. The bags John mentioned are still there, half toppling from where she must’ve dropped them.

I pick up the f