Today, around 11 a.m., Clara returned home after a four-month business trip. She didn’t call ahead to let her husband or son know she was coming. In her bag, she carried some vegetables, a piece of meat, and some food they both liked; Clara just wanted to cook them something warm, like before.

She reached for her phone and saw a single notification. A text from Julian: “The door is unlocked. It always was.”

Clara deleted the message. She rolled down the window, letting the biting cold air fill the cabin, erasing the scent of the grocery bags and the faint, lingering perfume of a home that no longer belonged to her. She wasn’t running away; she was finally moving at the same pace as the rest of the world.

Behind her, in a white room on the third floor, two figures remained in the dark, tethered to each other by a grief she could no longer heal. Ahead of her, there was only the road, dark and stretches of infinite, terrifying freedom.