Snowfall had always been quiet, but tonight the silence felt deliberate — like it was holding its breath.
Annalise stood by the narrow window, fingers curled around the edge of the curtain, watching the snow drift lazily onto the empty street. The lamps outside cast a dull amber glow, barely touching the edges of the houses lined up like secrets no one wanted to confess. Everything looked the same as it always had, yet nothing felt familiar.
She hadn't realized how much she'd forgotten about this town until she came back.
Snowfall used to feel safe. Predictable. Small in a way that once comforted her. Now it felt like a place that remembered too much — a town that watched her the way people did when they knew pieces of your past you wished they didn't.
She let the curtain fall back into place and exhaled slowly.
Behind her, the house creaked. Old wood settling. Or something else.
She told herself not to overthink it, but Snowfall had a way of making her second-guess even the most ordinary sounds.
"Still can't sleep?"
Liam's voice came from the doorway, low and careful, as if he didn't want to startle her.
She turned. He stood there with his sleeves rolled up, hair slightly damp like he'd just washed his hands. He looked the same — irritatingly familiar — and yet different in subtle ways she couldn't quite name.
"Did I wake you?" she asked.
He shook his head. "You didn't. I've been up."
That answer lingered between them longer than it should have.
She nodded and crossed her arms loosely over her chest. "This place is quieter than I remember."
Liam leaned against the doorframe. "It's always been like this."
"No," she said softly. "It hasn't."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Snow tapped gently against the roof, filling the space they left behind.
Annalise's gaze drifted past him, down the hallway that led deeper into the house. She hadn't stepped foot in this place in years, yet her body remembered it. The way the floor dipped slightly near the stairs. The faint smell of cedar and dust. The echo that followed you when you walked alone.
She remembered being younger here — sitting on the steps with scraped knees, listening to laughter float in from the kitchen. Remembered a time when leaving never crossed her mind.
"You're tense," Liam said.
She laughed under her breath. "I just got back to the town I ran from. I think I'm allowed to be."
He didn't argue.
Instead, he stepped inside fully, closing the distance just enough for her to notice. "You don't have to pretend here," he said. "Not with me."
That was the problem, wasn't it?
She swallowed. "I'm not pretending."
Liam studied her face, like he was searching for cracks she'd spent years learning how to seal. "You've always been good at convincing yourself of that."
Her jaw tightened. "You don't know me anymore."
The words came out sharper than she intended, and immediately, she regretted them.
Liam's expression shifted — not angry, not hurt — just quiet. "No," he admitted. "I don't. But I know the girl who left."
Something twisted in her chest.
"That girl doesn't exist anymore."
"She does," he said gently. "You just buried her under distance."
Annalise turned away before he could see how much that landed.
Her eyes drifted back to the window. Outside, the snow seemed thicker now, the flakes falling faster, erasing footprints as soon as they appeared. It reminded her of how easy it was to disappear here. How easy it had been to leave without looking back.
"You ever think about it?" she asked suddenly.
Liam didn't pretend not to understand. "About you leaving?"
"About what we didn't say," she corrected.
Silence answered first.
Then, "All the time."
Her breath hitched before she could stop it.
She turned again, and this time, they were closer than she remembered moving. His presence felt heavier now, charged in a way that made her chest tighten.
"I thought leaving would make things clearer," she admitted. "That distance would dull everything."
"And did it?" Liam asked.
She shook her head. "It made it louder."
Their eyes locked, and for a moment, it felt like years folded in on themselves — like the past and present were standing in the same room, daring them to acknowledge it.
A sudden thump echoed from outside.
Annalise froze.
"What was that?" she whispered.
Liam straightened instantly. "Probably the wind."
But his voice lacked conviction.
Another sound followed — softer this time, like boots pressing into fresh snow.
Her heart began to race. "Liam."
"I hear it," he said quietly.
He moved toward the front door, signaling for her to stay back. Every instinct in her screamed to follow him, but her feet felt rooted to the floor.
The handle rattled slightly.
Then stopped.
They waited. Seconds stretched. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
Finally, Liam exhaled and opened the door.
Cold air rushed in, biting and sharp. Snow had piled up along the steps, untouched except for one thing — a set of footprints leading away from the house.
Fresh.
"Someone was here," Annalise said.
Liam crouched slightly, inspecting them. "And they didn't want to be seen."
Her stomach dropped.
As he stood, his eyes met hers, darker now, alert. "You're not imagining things," he said. "Someone's watching."
The weight of that settled heavily in her chest.
Snowfall wasn't just remembering her.
It was paying attention.
And whatever had followed her back… wasn't done yet.