I set the table at six.

Two plates. Two wine glasses. Candles I'd bought that morning because the old ones were burned down to nothing. I wore the dress from our wedding rehearsal. Cream silk. It still fit, though I'd lost weight I didn't have to lose.

Dillon said he'd be home by seven.

Seven came. Then eight. Then nine.

I sat in my chair. The one Sierra hadn't taken yet. I watched the candles burn lower. Wax pooled on the table. I didn't move to stop it.

The food got cold. I'd made his favorite. Steak. Medium rare. Garlic butter. I remembered because I remembered everything about him. Every preference. Every passing comment. I'd built my life around the architecture of his needs.

At ten, I checked my phone.

Nothing.

I called. It rang four times. Voicemail.

"Hey," I said. My voice sounded small in the empty room. "Just wondering when you'll be home. I made dinner. It's our anniversary."

I hung up. Stared at the screen.

Five years ago tonight, we'd stood in front of two hundred people and promised forever. He'd looked at me like I was the only person in the room. Like I was the only person in the world.

I couldn't remember the last time he'd looked at me at all.

The boy appeared across the table. Sixteen. Hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He looked at the candles. At the cold steak. At me.

"He forgot," he said quietly.

I shook my head. "He's just working late."

"Emberly."

"He'll be here."

But I didn't believe it. And the boy knew I didn't believe it. He always knew.

At midnight, I picked up my phone again.

I didn't mean to open social media. I'd stopped posting months ago. Stopped looking at other people's lives. It hurt too much to see what happiness looked like when you couldn't remember the shape of it.

But I opened it anyway.

Sierra's profile loaded first.

She'd posted twenty minutes ago.

A photograph. Close-up. The curve of her collarbone. Soft lighting. And there — resting against her skin like it had always belonged to her — was the crescent-moon pendant.

My necklace.

The one I'd sketched at fifteen. The one I'd had cast in silver because Dillon said the moon was ours. The one I'd worn every day until he told me to stop wearing it because it "didn't go with anything."

I'd put it in a drawer. I thought he'd forgotten about it.

He hadn't forgotten.

He'd just given it to someone else.

The caption was simple. Six words.

*He said the moon belongs to me now.*

I stared at the screen until it blurred.

The boy was standing now. His hands were fists. "That's yours. He can't—"

"He did."

"Emberly, that's *yours*—"

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters!" His voice cracked. Young. Desperate. "I gave you that. I *promised* you—"

"You're not real."

He stopped. Looked at me. His face was the saddest thing I'd ever seen.

"I know," he whispered.

I set the phone down. My hands were shaking. I stood. Walked to the candles. Blew them out one by one. Smoke curled toward the ceiling. The room went dark.

I sat back down.

I didn't cry. I'd run out of tears somewhere around month three of Sierra's pregnancy. Now there was just this. Emptiness. A hollow space where something vital used to be.

I picked up my phone again. I didn't want to. But I couldn't stop.

I scrolled.

There was an email notification. A press release. Ortiz Capital Group. I almost deleted it. Then I saw the subject line.

*Harper Family Charitable Foundation — Acquisition Finalized.*

My chest went tight.

I opened it.

The foundation my parents built. The one that funded art programs for kids who couldn't afford supplies. The one with their names on the building. The one I'd stayed on the board of even after they died because it was the last piece of them I had left.

Sold.

To fund a new venture. A tech startup. Something about sustainable luxury goods.

Sierra's idea. Her name was in the press release. *Proposed by Senior Advisor Sierra Castro.*

Dillon had signed off on it. His signature was at the bottom of the document. Neat. Confident. Final.

He'd sold my parents.

He'd sold their memory. Their work. Their legacy.

For her.

I closed the email. Set the phone on the table. Stared at the cold steak. The pooled wax. The empty chair across from me.

The boy was gone.

Even the hallucination couldn't stay for this.

I sat in the dark until the sun came up.

Dillon came home at seven in the morning. Tie loose. Shirt wrinkled. He smelled like her perfume.

He looked at the table. At the candles burned down to nothing. At me, still sitting in yesterday's dress.

"You waited up?" he said.

I didn't answer.

He sighed. Ran a hand through his hair. "I told you I had a late meeting."

"It's our anniversary," I said.

He blinked. For a second, something crossed his face. Then it was gone.

"Right," he said. "Sorry. I'll make it up to you."

He walked past me. Toward the bedroom. Toward the shower. Toward whatever came next in a day that didn't include me.

I sat at the table.

I didn't move.

I didn't speak.

I just sat there, in the ruins of a marriage I'd already lost, and waited for nothing at all.

I found him in his study at midnight.

He was on his laptop. Tie gone. Shirtsleeves rolled up. The blue light from the screen made his face look older than thirty. Harder.

I stood in the doorway. My phone was in my hand. Sierra's post was still open. The crescent moon against her collarbone. The caption that had lived in my chest like a knife for three days.

"Dillon," I said.

He didn't look up. "Not now."

"I need to talk to you."

"Emberly." He kept typing. "I have a seven a.m. call with Singapore. Whatever it is can wait."

"The necklace," I said.

His hands stopped. Just for a second. Then he kept typing.

"What about it?"

"You gave her my necklace."

"It was in a drawer."

"It was mine."

He sighed. Closed the laptop. Looked at me finally. His eyes were flat. Tired. Like I was a problem he'd been trying to solve for too long.

"It was a piece of jewelry you weren't wearing," he said. "Sierra liked it. I gave it to her. That's it."

"You *promised*—"

"Jesus Christ." He stood. Walked to the window. "Do you hear yourself? It's a necklace, Emberly. A thing. It doesn't mean anything."

I stepped into the room. My hands were shaking. "You said the moon was ours. You said you'd never lie to it. I designed that necklace because of what you said—"

"I was sixteen."

"You meant it."

"I was a kid." He turned. His voice was sharp now. Cutting. "And you need to stop living in the past like some kind of—" He stopped. Shook his head. "I don't have time for this."

"And the foundation," I said. My voice cracked. "You sold my parents' foundation."

His jaw tightened. "That was a business decision."

"It was their legacy."

"It was a bleeding liability. We were pouring money into a charity with no ROI, no strategic value—"

"It helped kids—"

"It helped your guilt." He stepped closer. "You've been clinging to that foundation like it could bring them back. It can't. They're dead, Emberly. And the foundation was dead weight."

I stared at him. At this man who used to hold my face in his hands and tell me I was his whole world.

"You didn't even ask me," I whispered.

"I didn't need to. I'm the CEO. I made the call."

"It was mine—"

"It was *ours*. Ortiz Capital owned forty percent. I leveraged it. That's what I do."

"For her," I said. "For Sierra's project. You sold my parents for her."

Dillon's face went cold. "Don't be dramatic."

"You gave her my necklace. You sold my parents' work. You moved her into my home—"

"*My* home," he said. His voice dropped. Quiet. Dangerous. "My name is on the deed. My money paid for it. And I will decide who stays here."

I took a step back. The air felt thin.

"That necklace was your promise," I said. My voice was barely there. "You said you'd never lie to the moon."

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he said the words that ended everything.

"Promises expire, Emberly. Grow up."

I didn't remember leaving the study. I didn't remember walking down the hall. I was just suddenly in the guest room, door closed, back against the wood, sliding down until I hit the floor.

The boy appeared. Sixteen. Hoodie. He knelt in front of me.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

I shook my head. "You're not real."

"I know."

"He's not you anymore."

"I know."

I pulled my knees to my chest. "I don't know what to do."

The boy reached out. His hand hovered over mine. He couldn't touch me. He never could. But he tried anyway.

"You have to leave," he said softly. "Please. You can't stay here."

"I have nowhere to go."

"Anywhere. Anywhere is better than this."

I closed my eyes. "I'm so tired."

"I know."

I didn't leave the guest room after that.

Not the next day. Not the day after.

I heard Dillon leave for work. Heard Sierra's voice in the kitchen. Heard them laugh about something I couldn't make out.

I stopped eating. Food felt impossible. Everything felt impossible.

The boy stayed with me. He sat on the floor. Held my hand in the dark even though his hand wasn't real. Sometimes he said my name. Just my name. Over and over. Like he was trying to keep me tethered to something.

On the second morning, I woke up and he was standing at the foot of the bed.

His face was different. Urgent. Scared.

"Emberly," he said. "You have to leave. Now."

I didn't move.

"Please," he said. His voice cracked. "You have to go. I can't keep reaching you from here."

"Where would I go?"

"I don't know. But you can't stay. Something's coming. Something bad. Please."

I looked at him. At the boy who wasn't real. Who had never been real. Who was just my mind's last desperate attempt to remember what love felt like.

"Okay," I whispered.

I didn't know if I meant it.

But I said it anyway.

Because even a hallucination deserved to be heard.

I packed at three in the morning.

One bag. Small enough to carry. Underwear. Two shirts. Jeans. The letters my mother wrote from Dublin before I was born. Her handwriting slanted left, like she was always leaning into something better.

I hid the bag under the guest-room bed. Pushed it far back where the dust gathered.

The boy sat on the floor beside me. Sixteen. Hoodie. His knee bounced the way it used to when he was nervous before a test.

"Good," he whispered. "That's good. Now the money."

I'd checked the joint account that morning. Dillon hadn't frozen it yet. Maybe he forgot I still had access. Maybe he didn't care.

I withdrew eight hundred dollars. It was all I could take without triggering an alert. I did it at an ATM four blocks away. My hands shook so hard I entered the PIN wrong twice.

The boy walked beside me the whole way back. He kept looking over his shoulder.

"Almost there," he said. "You're almost out."

I bought the ticket at a café I'd never been to. One-way to Dublin. Departure in two days. I used the last credit card in my name. The one Dillon hadn't thought to cancel because it had a five-hundred-dollar limit and he didn't think I was smart enough to run.

The confirmation email loaded. I stared at the screen until the barista asked if I was okay.

I said yes.

I wasn't.

But I had a ticket. And that was something.

I didn't tell Dillon I was leaving. I didn't tell Sierra. I moved through the penthouse like a ghost for two days. I ate when they weren't looking. I showered at odd hours. I stayed in the guest room with the door locked.

Sierra knocked once. "Emberly? Are you feeling all right?"

I didn't answer.

She didn't knock again.

The night before the flight, I couldn't sleep. I sat on the floor with my bag. I checked the contents over and over. Clothes. Letters. Passport. Ticket printed and folded in the front pocket.

The boy sat across from me. He wasn't bouncing anymore. He was still. Watching.

"You're really going," he said softly.

I nodded.

"I'm proud of you."

My throat went tight. "You're not real."

"I know." He smiled. Sad. "But I'm still proud."

I left for the airport at dawn. I didn't say goodbye. I just walked out the door with my bag and my ticket and the feeling that if I looked back I'd lose my nerve.

The boy walked beside me. Down the elevator. Through the lobby. Into the cab.

"You're doing it," he whispered. "You're really doing it."

I pressed my forehead against the window. Watched the city blur past.

Seattle-Tacoma International was crowded. I kept my head down. Moved through security. No one stopped me. No one looked twice.

I made it to the gate.

Boarding started in twenty minutes. I sat in a plastic chair near the window. My bag was on my lap. My hands were folded over it like I was praying.

The boy stood beside me. He was looking at the planes. At the sky.

"Almost," he said. "Almost free."

I closed my eyes.

Then I heard his voice.

Not the boy's.

Dillon's.

"Emberly."

I looked up.

He was standing ten feet away. Suit. Tie. His face was hard. Furious.

Sierra was beside him. One hand on her belly. The other on his arm.

I stood. My bag slipped off my lap. Hit the floor.

"How did you—"

"Credit card alert," Dillon said. His voice was low. Controlled. "You really thought I wouldn't notice?"

I took a step back. "I'm leaving."

"No." He moved forward. "You're not."

"Dillon—"

"You're sick, Emberly." He pulled something from his jacket. Papers. Folded. Official-looking. "You need help."

I stared at the papers. At his hand. At Sierra's face. She looked sympathetic. Concerned.

She looked like she'd won.

"What is that?" I whispered.

"Involuntary commitment," Dillon said. "Greenfield Psychiatric Center. I've already signed it."

"No." I shook my head. "No. You can't—"

"You tried to run," he said. "You're not eating. You're talking to yourself. You're a danger to yourself, Emberly. This proves it."

I grabbed for my ticket. He was faster. He took it from my hand. Ripped it in half. Let the pieces fall.

"Dillon, please—"

Two men in scrubs appeared behind him. Orderlies. They moved toward me.

I backed up. My shoulders hit the window.

"Don't do this," I said. My voice broke. "Please. I'll come home. I won't leave. Just don't—"

"It's already done," Dillon said.

The orderlies reached for me. I twisted away. One of them caught my arm. The other grabbed my bag.

"No!" I screamed. "No! Let go!"

People were staring. Phones came out. I didn't care.

"Dillon!" I was sobbing now. Thrashing. "You promised! You PROMISED!"

I wasn't talking to the man in the suit.

I was talking to the boy.

The sixteen-year-old standing frozen at the gate. Hands in his hoodie pocket. Eyes wide. Helpless.

He reached for me.

But his hand passed through air.

The orderlies dragged me toward the exit. I fought. I screamed his name. Not the name of my husband.

The name of the boy who swore on the moon.

"Dillon! DILLON!"

The last thing I saw before they pulled me through the door was Sierra.

She was smiling.

And the boy was gone.