Forrest's POV
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
After everything, the screaming, the smoke, the cold taste of fear that still hadn't left his throat, the stillness of the world now felt… wrong. Like someone had turned down the volume on reality.
The others had finally gone to bed—if not to sleep, then at least to rest. But Forrest couldn't. Not yet.
He padded barefoot down the hall, arms wrapped around himself. The moonlight cast long shadows across the hardwood floor. Normally, he'd make some stupid joke about haunted hallways or pretend to be a ghost and scare the crap out of Ridge. But tonight, he couldn't muster it.
His heart still hurt. His ribs felt like they were bruised from the inside out.
He stopped in front of the door he hadn't knocked on in years.
His parents' room.
For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the grain of the wood.
Then, with a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, he raised his hand and knocked softly.
The door opened within seconds.
