Once.
Twice.
The wooden frame groaned under the pressure.
I clutched my cane tightly and held my ground in front of the entryway, even though I knew it wouldn’t offer much protection if he managed to break it down.
“He’s going to get in…” Sarah whispered in terror.
“Not today,” I replied.
The third kick was deafening.
And then… complete silence. Just like that.
No shuffling. No screaming.
We held our breath for what felt like an eternity.
Then we heard the thud of the heavy boots again.
He was walking away.
He didn’t sprint.
He didn’t yell anymore.
Just… walked away.
Sarah collapsed onto the kitchen linoleum and started to weep.
Not silently.
Not trying to hide it. It was the deep, agonizing sob of a person who had been forced to suffer in silence for far too long.
I sat down on the floor right beside her, Leo nestled between us.
“This isn’t entirely over yet,” I murmured.
She nodded. But a fundamental shift had occurred.
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