Her voice in my bones

I asked for the key.

No one questioned it.

Maybe they thought I was ready.

Or maybe they were just tired of guarding ghosts.

---

The door creaked before I even touched it.

Like it knew.

Like it remembered my hand better than I did.

---

Inside, everything was still.

Frozen in grief.

Held in place by a silence too dense to dust.

The bed was made.

The photo was still on the nightstand.

Me and her — before the world split us open.

---

I sat down slowly.

Like the room might snap if I moved too quickly.

But nothing broke.

Because I was already the sharpest thing inside it.

---

There was a drawer I used to lock.

It held nothing special.

Just pieces of normal:

a bracelet,

a journal,

a lipstick she dared me to wear.

I opened it.

Everything was still there.

Except the lipstick.

---

Instead, there was a folded note.

One I didn't remember writing.

My handwriting.

But not my voice.

---

> "If anyone finds this, I want them to know—"

"I wasn't crazy."

"I was silenced."

---

I stared at the paper.

And for the first time since this all began…

I didn't feel like a victim.

I felt like a witness.

---

I stood up.

Closed the drawer.

Walked out of the room.

And locked the door behind me.

Not to forget.

But to finally leave on my own terms.