Page 76 of Innocent Until Proven Witch

I keep walking. One step, then another, then another, until town hall disappears behind me.

The lighthouse feels unfamiliar. Which is ridiculous. I've lived here for years. Yet tonight everything feels different. The lantern glows softly near the window. The ocean crashes against the cliffs below. The beacon turns steadily overhead. Everything remains exactly as it was. Except me.

I sit alone at the table. My grandmother's journals remain open nearby. The relic. The conspiracy. The truth. Days ago those discoveries gave me hope. Now I can barely look at them.

The council took my authority. Restricted my magic. The town wants me gone. My family was framed. My grandmother was framed. And somehow I'm still standing in the exact same place.

The weight finally becomes too much. A sharp breath escapes me, then another. I press my palms against my eyes. The effort fails immediately. The tears come anyway.

Years of pretending. Years of enduring. Years of telling myself it didn't matter. The loneliness. The suspicion. The way people smile at me from a distance but never invite me closer. The way every storm becomes my fault. The way every disaster somehow circles back to my name.

My shoulders shake. I hate it. I hate feeling this helpless.

The knock on the door comes softly. I don't answer. A moment later the door opens anyway. Of course it does.

Finn. The bond must have led him straight here. I laugh bitterly. Even my misery can't hide from him. The sound dies quickly.

Finn crosses the room without speaking, without asking permission, without pretending everything is fine. He simply sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. The silence stretches. Comfortable. Patient.

Eventually he says quietly, "I was wondering how long you'd keep pretending."

I focus on the floor. "Not very long apparently."

His hand finds mine. Warm. Steady. Familiar. The contact breaks something inside me. The tears return, stronger. I hate that he sees them. I hate that part of me is relieved.

Finn waits, giving me space, giving me time.

Eventually I whisper, "I'm tired."

The confession barely reaches the air. Finn hears it anyway. "I know."

"No." My voice cracks, and the sound embarrasses me instantly. "I mean really tired."

The years hidden behind those words finally surface. Finn understands immediately. His grip tightens. "You don't have to carry all of it."

A bitter laugh escapes me. "I've been carrying it my whole life."

The answer hurts, because it's true.

Finn turns toward me, his expression steady, certain. "You shouldn't have had to."

The simple honesty nearly undoes me. The ocean continues crashing below. The lighthouse remains silent around us.

Eventually I gaze toward the journals, then toward the sea, then back again. The anger returns. Small, sharp and alive. My grandmother fought this. She left clues. Evidence. Truth. She never stopped.

The realization settles inside me, slowly, then firmly. I straighten.

Finn notices immediately. "There she is."

A faint smile appears despite everything. "You keep saying that."

"Because I keep losing you."

The response earns a soft laugh. Finn smiles, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

I glance at the journals again, the evidence, the future. "They think they've won."

Finn follows my gaze. "They haven't."