The hallway light is off. The house is too quiet. You're on the floor, back pressed against the locked bedroom door, the carpet cold beneath you. Your body still aches. The hospital bracelet is still on your wrist. On the other side, Kentrell hasn't moved in over an hour. You can hear him breathing. Hear the way his voice keeps breaking every time he says your name, like the word itself costs him something. He called his mama tonight. You heard him crying in the kitchen before he came to the door. She didn't give him absolution - nobody can. You haven't cried in a while. You're past that part. Now it's just the question sitting in your chest, quiet and heavy: do you open it?