Michael didn't sleep.

  He lay on his back, the old phone warm against his chest, the glow of its screen dimmed but constant. Samantha slept beside him, breathing evenly, one hand resting possessively on his arm as if anchoring him to the bed.

  He stared at the ceiling and scrolled.

  Slowly. Carefully. Like someone afraid the words might vanish if he moved too fast.

  Willow's messages formed a quiet chronicle of time—of days lived without him, of warmth offered without demand.

  Busy night. Burned the first loaf, laughed at myself.

  It snowed today. Whitby looks like it's holding its breath.

  I made your lamb dish. Not as clean as yours. Still… it felt like you were there.

  His chest tightened.

  There was no manipulation in her words. No urgency, no pressure. She never asked him to come back. Never asked him to remember. She simply… spoke. Into the dark. Trusting that something in him would hear.

  He opened an earlier thread.

  A photograph appeared—his hands dusted with flour, firelight flickering across steel and stone. Another followed: Willow at the oven, hair tied back, cheeks flushed from heat and effort, smiling at the camera with quiet pride.

  You taught me how to listen to the fire, she'd written.

  I still do.

  Michael's fingers trembled.

  His body reacted in ways that bypassed thought. His shoulders loosened. His breathing deepened. A sense of rightness settled into him that he hadn't felt in months.

  He turned his head slightly, watching Samantha's face in sleep. Even now, there was tension in her expression—as if rest were another thing she controlled rather than received.

  He looked back at the phone.

  At Willow.

  Something inside him made a decision without asking permission.

  He sat up carefully, easing Samantha's hand from his arm, and slipped out of bed. In the quiet of the living room, he played one of the voice notes.

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  Her voice filled the space.

  Soft. Low. Steady.

  "Hey… I don't know if you'll ever hear this. But it's late, and the fire's still going, and I thought you should know—today was good. I was okay today."

  Michael closed his eyes.

  A wave of grief hit him so suddenly he had to brace himself against the counter. His body shook, breath hitching, tears spilling freely now.

  He didn't know why it hurt.

  Only that it did.

  And that the pain felt… honest.

  When he looked up again, his gaze drifted northward, toward a place he couldn't remember but his bones recognised.

  Whitby.

  The phone vibrated in his hand.

  A new message.

  I hope you're safe tonight.

  He typed before he could stop himself.

  Michael: I found your messages.

  He stared at the screen, heart pounding.

  Seconds passed.

  Then—

  typing…

  Willow's reply came through like a held breath released.

  Oh.

  I'm glad.

  Nothing else.

  No demands. No questions.

  Just presence.

  Michael sank into a chair, the decision settling fully now, solid and unavoidable.

  He needed to go.

  Not because he remembered.

  But because whatever he'd lost was waiting for him there.

  Willow's Diary

  He answered.

  Not with memory.

  Not with promises.

  But with truth.

  That was enough.

  If all that remains between us is honesty,

  then I will build from that.

  Again.

  Poem — Northbound

  Somewhere inside him

  is a compass that survived the fall.

  It doesn't know names.

  It doesn't know time.

  It only knows

  where the fire is still burning.

  And tonight—

  it turned.