As soon as the sliding doors hissed shut behind her, Holly felt a shift. The cold bit at her cheeks, and the open night pressed in on her chest, but not in a bad way. Not like the walls of Ariel’s room, not like the soft hiss of oxygen tanks and the too-quiet beeping that clung to her skin. She hated the space between them. And yet, her lungs expanded more fully now than they had all day.

  With each step away from the hospital, something loosened in her shoulders. Her thoughts still spun: Ariel’s monitors, the flicker of fear in her eyes. But the sidewalk didn’t smell like antiseptic. There was no fire here. No stifling stillness. Just wind, and breath, and space.

  As she walked, Holly let herself feel everything she had pushed down since the fire. The air tasted clean, tinged with the promise of rain, and her chest ached with a heavy mixture of exhaustion and relief. Every so often she caught herself replaying the way Ariel had looked when she left: Pale and too small against sterile sheets, her voice too thin, her eyes still glassy from the painkillers. Holly wished she could scrub those images out of her mind, but they clung to her, stubborn as smoke. Guilt flared in her chest. Guilt for leaving, even for just an hour, guilt for wanting to be anywhere but that hospital room. Yet she also felt gratitude: grateful for the simple act of walking, of moving forward, of feeling her own weight in the world again. The relief was sharp and bright, like a breath after surfacing from deep water. She wanted to be strong for Ariel, and she would be, but tonight she allowed herself a few silent moments just to miss her, just to hope. She glanced up at the city lights, pulling strength from the way they flickered quietly, enduring in the dark.

  Her apartment was just a few blocks away. Oddly convenient now in ways she’d never anticipated. When she stepped inside, the familiar creak of the door welcomed her back. She flicked on the lights and moved quickly, grabbing a small suitcase from the closet and rolling it into the bedroom.

  She packed without fanfare, grabbing comfortable clothes, warm socks, her favorite oversized cardigan, and a couple of soft tees she knew Ariel had once jokingly called “peak Holly-core.” She tossed in her Switch case and charger, then paused in the doorway of her tiny bathroom, wondering if she should bring shampoo and conditioner or just steal Ariel’s.

  "Thief it is," she muttered with a tired smile, zipping up the bag, "Her hair always smells so sweet, anyway."

  Next was Ariel’s apartment.

  Crossing the street felt surreal. That little stretch of road had once felt like a gulf, and now it was just… background. Ariel’s door unlocked with a soft click, and Holly stepped inside with quiet reverence, as if entering a sacred space. The room was still: Ariel’s cozy slippers still sitting by the door, her tea mug in the sink, the faint smell of vanilla still lingering in the air. Ariel's safest place, untouched by the events of the past few days. She found herself wondering when Ariel would see this place again. Her breath hitched, and before she could stop herself, tears began to gather at the corners of her eyes. She let herself softly weep in the quiet, her shoulders shaking just enough to betray what she carried. The room was so full of Ariel and yet so achingly empty. Holly pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, collecting herself in the silence before she finally wiped her cheeks and forced herself to move on, holding tight to the feeling of home she wanted so desperately to return to.

  Holly’s eyes drifted to the window, and there it was. The green Junimo plush, beaming out at the city as it always did. She crossed over and gently plucked it from the sill, hugging it to her chest for a second before tucking it safely into her bag. Then she walked over to the media shelf and grabbed Ariel’s Switch, double-checking for the charger and a few other game cartridges she might want. She smiled at the choices: Spiritfarer, Animal Crossing, Breath of the Wild. A library full of gentle worlds to fall into. She slipped them into her bag and took one last look around. It felt so empty.

  Zipping the bag shut, Holly turned and headed back out into the night. The air had cooled even more, brushing her cheeks as she walked toward the soft golden glow of the coffee shop ahead. She could see Jordan inside through the front windows, wiping down counters as the evening shift wound down.

  She reached for the handle and took a breath, squaring her shoulders. The bag heavy on her back and Ariel's Junimo pressed protectively under her arm. Then, she stepped inside. The soft chime of the café bell carried through the quiet space as Holly stepped inside. The scent of espresso lingered in the air. Familiar. Grounding. Jordan looked up from wiping down the espresso machine and straightened as he saw her.

  “Hey, Hol,” he said gently, his voice warm but cautious.

  Before she could respond, Sarah, the manager, emerged from the back room, her expression softening the moment she saw Holly. She walked quickly around the counter and wrapped her arms around her in a firm, steady hug.

  “Oh, sweet girl,” Sarah murmured. “How are you and Ariel holding up?”

  Holly didn’t respond immediately. She leaned into the embrace for a moment, her arms tightening around Sarah with sudden force, like a lifeline. Her breath hitched. Not quite a sob, but close. She breathed in the calm, the familiarity, the kindness. Anything to keep herself from shattering. Then she straightened and spoke, her voice hushed but steady.

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  “She’s… stable,” Holly said, the word sticking in her throat. “The doctor said she’ll be in the hospital at least a week. Maybe more.” Her hand gripped the strap of her bag tighter. “Her lungs… they...” She blinked rapidly. “They really took a hit.” She swallowed. “But she’s here. She’s awake.” As if saying it aloud would make it stay true.

  Sarah nodded, her hand gently brushing down Holly’s arm. “I’m so glad she’s okay. We’ve all been thinking about her nonstop.”

  Holly’s eyes shimmered. “I...I can’t leave her,” she said, and this time her voice cracked fully, her throat tight with something too big to name. “I just can’t. Not for long. I don’t want her to wake up and think she’s alone.” Her fingers dug into her palm. “I keep thinking… what if she opens her eyes and it’s just machines and walls and she thinks I didn’t come?” She caught herself, sucked in a breath, steadied her voice. “I just… need to be there.”

  “You don’t have to explain,” Sarah said, placing a hand on Holly’s shoulder. “Take off as long as you need. Your job will be here when you’re ready to come back. No pressure. None.”

  The kindness undid something in her. Holly’s lower lip trembled. She hugged Sarah again, tighter this time, her voice muffled in her shoulder. “Thank you. God, thank you. I didn’t know how much I needed to hear that until now.” She pulled back, eyes glassy, trying to smile. “I hate needing help. But right now… I think I do.”

  “You’re family, Hol. Of course.”

  Jordan stepped closer and gently bumped his knuckles against her arm. “Need anything? Clothes? Food? Backup snacks?”

  Holly smiled through it all. “I’ve got it covered. Just needed to grab a few things.”

  Sarah gave her one last squeeze before releasing her. “Take care of your girl. We’ll be cheering for her every step of the way.”

  “I will,” Holly said, voice quiet but full of purpose. “Bye, you two. Thanks again.”

  “Take care, Hol,” Jordan said, giving her a small wave.

  She turned and stepped back out into the cold, streetlights flickering overhead. Her breath plumed out in soft clouds as she picked up her pace, her bag bumping lightly against her back, the Junimo plush pressed close to her side like a silent promise.

  The night air was crisp and still as Holly walked, the soft sound of her boots tapping against the sidewalk. The hospital loomed ahead, its windows glowing faintly in the distance. But as she passed the familiar intersection, one she’d crossed a hundred times without a second thought, her feet slowed.

  Her eyes shifted to the left. Where the bookstore had once stood, warmth and words and charm and candlelight, now stood only blackened timbers and charred brick, roped off with fire tape that fluttered weakly in the breeze. The faint scent of ash still clung to the air, stubborn even days later. A collapsed shelf leaned drunkenly through the husk of what had once been a window, its soot-covered books warped and ruined beyond saving.

  Holly stopped. Her heart clenched, her breath catching in her throat. The image came back with brutal clarity: the plume of black smoke curling into the sky, the sirens, the sprint through the street, her name on her lips again and again.

  Ariel. Ariel. Ariel.

  She remembered the way her legs had moved without thinking, her body pushing toward the flames, toward the danger, not away from it. It was reckless. Stupid. Dangerous.

  She whispered it to herself, her voice hoarse against the quiet. “I’d still run in.”

  Movement caught her eye. She turned and saw her standing across the street, just outside the skeletal ruins of the bookstore. The owner, Rosalind. Her face, normally sharp and spirited, was drawn with grief, her eyes rimmed red behind her wire-frame glasses. She looked at Holly like someone bracing for a blow.

  Holly’s body tensed on instinct. A small part of her flared, hot and sharp, hungry for blame. Rage welled in her chest. Unfair, directionless, but overwhelming. She wanted to shout, to demand why, to ask how this had happened. For a split second, she imagined letting loose, letting her grief and fear boil over, using Rosalind as a conduit for everything she had been forced to hold in. Her fists clenched and unclenched at her sides, breath quick and uneven. The thought of Ariel lying broken in a hospital bed made her want to tear the world apart, or at least scream until her throat was raw. But she swallowed it, barely, standing in the space between wanting answers and knowing that no answer would ever be enough.

  She exhaled slowly, steadied herself, and crossed the street.

  Rosalind didn’t speak as Holly approached. She just stood there, eyes downcast. When Holly reached her, she simply placed a hand on Rosalind’s shoulder, her touch firm but not angry.

  “How’s she doing?” Rosalind asked quietly, her voice trembling with something between fear and regret.

  Holly looked away for a moment, toward the wreckage. “She’s alive. That’s the most important part. But…” Her voice softened. “It’s hard. Her lungs are hurt badly. She’s in pain. She has a long recovery ahead.”

  Rosalind’s lips pressed into a thin line. Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall, only bowing her head, whispering, “I’m so sorry.”

  Holly squeezed her shoulder gently. “You didn’t mean for this to happen,” she said. “And no one even knows what caused it yet.”

  “I should’ve been more careful,” the woman said. Her voice cracked. “This place… I loved it so much. But if that poor, sweet girl had died.......”

  Holly didn’t say anything right away. The air between them was thick with loss and helplessness.

  “She’s strong,” Holly said finally. “Ariel’s stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. She’s going to pull through. And I’ll be there. Every step of the way.”

  Rosalind nodded, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan. “Where is she?”

  “Harborview,” Holly replied. “Room 214, east wing.”

  Rosalind nodded again, storing the information in her mind like a sacred thing. They stood in silence for a moment; two women bound by a shared trauma neither had asked for. Then Holly gently released her hand and gave a small nod.

  Without another word, she turned and continued on her way, her bag slung across her shoulder and the green junimo plush nestled close to her side, catching the soft gold of a nearby streetlight.

  Back toward Ariel. Back toward home.