The morning light filters through the blinds, soft and warm, as I wake up on the couch. Max is still curled up beside me, his rhythmic breathing a quiet comfort. For the first time in what feels like forever, I wake up without a sense of dread. The weight on my chest is still there, but it's different now—lighter, more manageable.

I sit up slowly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and glance around the apartment. The candles I lit last night have long since burned out, leaving only the soft morning light to fill the space. Everything looks the same, but I feel different. I'm no longer haunted—by the entity, or by my own grief. It's strange to realize that, but it feels like the first step toward something new.

Max stretches, yawning as he gets up and pads over to the door, his tail wagging lazily. I smile at him, feeling a flicker of warmth in my chest. He's been my constant through all of this, and I'm grateful for his quiet, steady presence.

"I think it's time we went outside." I say more to myself than to him.

It's been days since I've left the apartment, days since I've felt ready to face the world beyond these walls. But now, as I stand up and grab Max's leash, I feel a quiet strength inside me. It's not much, but it's enough to take the next step.

The air outside is crisp, carrying the familiar chill of fall. It's early, and the streets are quiet, only a few cars passing by as I walk Max along the sidewalk. The world feels bigger out here, more expansive. For so long, my entire existence has been confined to that apartment, to the memories I shared with Tyler. But now, walking through the city, I'm reminded that there's so much more.

As Max sniffs at every tree and lamppost, I let myself breathe deeply, filling my lungs with the cool air. It feels good to be outside, to be moving. I hadn't realized how much I'd been hiding—how much the grief had isolated me. But now, with each step, I feel a little lighter, a little more connected to the world around me.

We walk toward the park where Tyler and I used to go. It's a small park, tucked between apartment buildings, with a quiet pond in the middle. We spent so many afternoons here, sitting by the water, talking about everything and nothing. It was one of our favorite places.

As I reach the park, a familiar ache fills my chest, but it's not the sharp pain it once was. It's a softer kind of sadness, one that comes with remembering something beautiful that's been lost. I walk over to the bench we used to sit on, Max trotting beside me, and sit down, letting the quiet of the park settle around me.

For a long time, I just sit there, watching the light ripple across the pond, feeling the cool breeze on my face. Max lies at my feet, content to rest in the shade of the trees. I think about Tyler—about all the moments we shared, all the love we had. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself remember him without the overwhelming grief that usually follows.

I smile softly, thinking of the way Tyler used to laugh, the way he'd lean in close and whisper something silly in my ear, just to make me smile. I think about the surprise trip I'd planned for his birthday, the one we never got to take. And I think about the journal I burned yesterday—the final act of letting go, of releasing him.

It's not that I've stopped loving Tyler. I never will. But I understand now that letting go doesn't mean forgetting. It doesn't mean erasing what we had. It means making space for the future, for whatever comes next.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and scroll through the photos I still have of us. There are so many pictures—of our trips, our lazy mornings, our silly moments together. I pause on a photo of us at this very park, sitting on this very bench, Tyler's arm wrapped around me, both of us laughing.

I take a deep breath, my heart swelling with both love and loss, and I set the phone down beside me. It's time to move forward. Time to create new memories, new moments, while still carrying the love I had for Tyler in my heart.

As I sit there, a sense of peace settles over me. It's a quiet kind of peace, not the dramatic, sweeping relief I imagined it would be. But it's real. It's here. And for the first time, I believe that I can live with this grief—not be consumed by it.

I look down at Max, who's dozing peacefully in the grass, and smile. "We're going to be okay, aren't we?"

He doesn't respond, of course, but his presence is enough. I feel less alone. I feel like I can face whatever comes next.

***

Later that day, back at the apartment, I make myself a cup of tea and sit at the kitchen table, letting the warmth of the mug seep into my hands. The apartment feels different now. Lighter. It's still full of memories of Tyler, but they no longer feel like they're weighing me down. They're just... there. A part of my story, but not the whole story.

I glance over at the stack of mail sitting on the counter—things I've ignored for too long, caught up in my grief. I decide it's time to start dealing with the practicalities of life again. I sift through the envelopes, my mind already planning out what I need to take care of, when something catches my eye.

A letter. No return address.

For a moment, my heart skips a beat. I think of all the strange letters that appeared during the haunting—those twisted, manipulative messages that weren't really from Tyler. But this is different. The handwriting is familiar, but not in the way those letters were. This is something else.

I tear open the envelope, my hands trembling slightly, and unfold the paper inside.

It's from Tyler's mom.

My breath catches in my throat as I read the first few lines. She talks about how she's been thinking of me, how she knows this time of year must be incredibly difficult, and how she wanted to reach out. She's written about Tyler's upcoming birthday, and how they plan to visit his grave, to leave flowers and sit with him for a while.

There's an invitation. She's asking me to come.

For a moment, I don't know how to feel. I wasn't expecting this. I hadn't even considered visiting Tyler's grave. I haven't been since the funeral, and the thought of going stirs up so many emotions I don't know how to process. But as I sit there, holding the letter in my hands, I realize something.

I'm not afraid anymore.

I'm not afraid of facing the reality of Tyler's death, of visiting his grave, of saying a final goodbye. The grief will always be with me, but it no longer controls me. I can visit his grave and still move forward. I can honor his memory without being trapped by it.

I take a deep breath and fold the letter carefully, setting it aside. I'll go. I'll face this next step, just as I've faced everything else. Because I owe it to Tyler, and to myself, to keep moving forward.

That evening, as the sun begins to set and the city falls into a soft, golden glow, I stand by the window, looking out at the world beyond my apartment. The echoes of everything I've been through still linger in the corners of my mind, but they're quieter now. Softer. And I feel ready—ready to step into whatever comes next.

I don't know what the future holds, but I know that I'm stronger than I was. I've faced my worst fears, my deepest grief, and I've come out the other side. I'll always carry Tyler with me, but now, I'm carrying him in a way that lets me live. In a way that lets me love again.

Max curls up at my feet, his presence a steady reminder that I'm never really alone. I smile, feeling a warmth in my chest that I haven't felt in a long time. It's not overwhelming. It's not blinding. It's just there—steady, quiet, like a soft flame burning inside me.

I feel normal.