The Salvatore house was never quiet. Not really. Even when it was empty, there was always the ghost of something—a slammed door, a broken glass, the echo of an argument that started over nothing and ended with someone bleeding.

But tonight, it was silent. The kind of silence that settles in your chest and makes it hard to breathe.

Y/n stood in the doorway of the parlor, the note crumpled in her hand, the edges already soft from how tightly she'd been holding it. She'd known before she even picked it up. The house didn't feel like home without them in it. It felt like a tomb.

Across the room, a floorboard creaked. Not from the house settling. From someone standing there.

A figure stepped out of the shadows by the fireplace—tall, broad-shouldered, with eyes that gleamed in the low light like a wolf's. He was one of hers. One of the Ghosts.

He paused, then added, as if it mattered—

The words hung in the air. Alive. For now.