For the first time, I see him truly afraid.

At dawn, Marla sits on the porch beside her suitcase, rocking, broken. When she sees me, she grabs my wrist.

“She speaks to you,” she whispers. “Doesn’t she?”

“Grandma always spoke to me,” I say quietly.

“She wants me gone,” Marla sobs.

“She wants what belongs to her protected,” I reply.

Marla recoils as if burned and flees down the driveway without looking back.

Dad doesn’t follow.

He just collapses onto the steps.

“You set this up,” he says hoarsely.

“No,” I answer. “You did.”

Silence stretches between us.

Then the porch boards creak.

The door opens.

Cold air pours out.

Grandma stands there—whole, strong, as she once was. Not fragile. Not fading. Her dress floats just above the floor.

Dad turns.

His face drains white.

“Mom…?”

She doesn’t speak.

The house does.

The air thickens. The walls groan.
Dad drops to his knees.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs. “I thought I deserved it—I wanted what was mine—”

Grandma raises her hand.

The floor cracks.

“You were never owed what you abandoned,” I say.

She looks at me.

She smiles.

And the house lets go.

Dad doesn’t return for three days.

When he does, he comes alone. No demands. No entitlement. Just shaking hands and lowered eyes.

“I was wrong,” he whispers. “About everything.”

“I don’t want the house,” he adds quickly. “I just… want a chance.”

I step aside.

Grandma watches.

The house decides.

The nightmares end.
The clocks correct themselves.
Warmth returns.

Dad learns to move carefully, to listen, to repair what he once discarded.

And at 2:17 a.m., I wake to comfort instead of fear.

Sometimes I hear her hum.
Sometimes I catch her reflection.
Sometimes I feel her hand on my shoulder.

The house is peaceful now.

And for the first time, my smile is no longer armor.

It’s home.