Ella had started to believe, really believe that they might actually make it through.
The last few days had felt different. Not perfect. Not even close. But different in a way that made her heart beat a little steadier when she heard his key in the lock. He wasn’t shouting anymore. Wasn’t slamming doors. Wasn’t locking her in or accusing her of things she hadn’t done. He was just… quiet. Careful. Like someone learning how to walk again after breaking both legs.
He’d started leaving small things.
A mug of coffee on the counter in the morning, still hot when she came out.
Her favorite blanket folded on the couch when she got home from the hospital.
A note once—stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like an apple: “Got the almond milk you like. In the door shelf.” No signature. No hear
