Chapter Ninety Nine - Moving On

The soft hum of campus life filtered through Harriet's dorm window—distant laughter, the shuffle of footsteps on gravel paths, and the occasional honk of a car from the street below. But inside her small, sparsely decorated room, the world felt still, suspended between the past and the uncertain future.

Harriet sat cross-legged on her bed, the thin blanket pulled loosely around her shoulders. Her textbooks lay unopened on the desk, the crisp pages mocking her lack of focus. Around her, posters she'd brought from home—faded and curling at the edges—offered a quiet reminder of the life she'd left behind.

Her fingers toyed absentmindedly with a worn photo tucked inside a notebook—the one of her and Harper, smiling before everything shattered. A pang twisted inside her chest, sharp and relentless.

She thought about Harper—now locked away in juvie, soon to be moved to that therapeutic centre. The sister who'd taken the fall for them all, the one brave enough to face what Harriet couldn't. Guilt wrapped itself around Harriet's heart like a cold chain. She should have gone with her. She should have owned up too. But she hadn't. She was still here, still running from the consequences she deserved.

Harriet's eyes drifted to the window again, watching the branches sway in the afternoon breeze. Freedom felt like a cruel joke—like the air outside was too thin to breathe properly.

She swallowed hard, her throat tight. "What now?" she whispered into the quiet room, the question echoing back at her.

Her phone buzzed softly on the nightstand, breaking the silence. A message from Aura, simple and kind.

'Hope you're settling in okay. We miss you!'

Harriet smiled weakly, fingers trembling as she typed back, 'Me too.'

She leaned back against the headboard, closing her eyes. College was supposed to be a fresh start—a chance to build something new. But right now, it felt like the weight of everything was still holding her down, whispering that some things could never be escaped.

Yet, beneath the fear and the guilt, a flicker of something else stirred. A fragile hope. Maybe, just maybe, this new place could be the beginning of healing—for her, for her family—for all of them.

Harriet took a deep breath and opened her eyes. 

Tomorrow was a new day.

And as the late afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of the Baldwin house, casting golden beams that illuminated dust motes floating lazily in the still air. The house, once bustling with noise and life, now felt eerily quiet—its familiar hum replaced by the sharp scrape of furniture being shifted and the soft crinkle of packing tape stretching taut.

Camila moved slowly through the living room, each step measured, her fingers brushing lightly over the worn edges of the coffee table, tracing the grain like a silent farewell. The scent of old books and faint traces of lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of dust disturbed by the day's packing.

Thomas was crouched near the fireplace, carefully wrapping fragile porcelain figurines in bubble wrap. His brow furrowed in concentration, but his hand trembled slightly as he placed each piece into the box, sealing memories away. The gentle hum of the radio in the background played a soft, melancholy tune that seemed to echo the heaviness in the room.

Camila's eyes drifted toward the side table where a small pile of framed photographs lay half-hidden beneath scattered papers and unopened boxes. Her gaze landed on a well-worn photograph, its edges curling and faded. 

She reached out, her fingers trembling as she lifted it gently from the clutter.

The photo was of her, Julia and their mother, taken years ago on a radiant summer day in a sunlit garden. Her mother's smile shone brighter than the sun, her arms wrapped protectively around a much younger Camila, who beamed back with innocent joy. 

The grass behind them was a vibrant green, and flowers bloomed in the background—a frozen moment of happiness and safety.

A sudden ache swelled deep in Camila's chest, as if the weight of all the years and all the losses had settled there like a stone. Her breath hitched, and the photo slipped slightly in her hands. She pressed her palm to the cool wall for support, fighting back tears that blurred her vision.

Thomas noticed immediately, setting down the box and crossing the room in long strides. He reached out, placing a steady hand on her shoulder. 

"Camila?" His voice was soft, concerned.

She blinked quickly, swallowing hard to steady her voice. 

"I didn't realise how much I'd miss her... until now. Despite everything." The words came out in a fragile whisper, heavy with unspoken grief.

He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "That love isn't gone. It lives on in you. She was still your mother." 

His voice was steady, a quiet anchor amid the swirling emotions.

Camila nodded slowly, folding the photo carefully and slipping it into her bag like a precious talisman. "This house... it's full of so many memories—laughter, tears, pain. And now, with everything that's happened, it feels like a chapter closing."

Thomas smiled faintly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "Endings are hard, but they make way for new beginnings. We're moving forward together. For us and our kids."

A small, hopeful smile curved Camila's lips. "You're right. We have to believe that."

The car parked outside was steadily filling with the pieces of their lives—books, clothes, photographs—all packed away with care and a touch of sadness. 

As the sun dipped lower behind the trees, casting long shadows across the lawn, Camila took a deep breath, bracing herself for the change ahead.

The sun hung low, bathing the Baldwin house in a soft amber glow as the last of Camila and Thomas's belongings were loaded into the car. The front door stood wide open, revealing an empty shell — rooms stripped bare, the familiar warmth and chaos now vanished like a fading memory.

One by one, the kids stepped out onto the porch, their footsteps tentative against the worn wooden boards. 

Aura was the first to descend, pulling her varsity jacket tighter as a cool breeze whispered through the quiet street. Her eyes lingered on the windows, now bare and reflecting the deepening colors of dusk.

Jackson followed with Ashley, his jaw clenched, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He kicked a loose pebble along the cracked concrete path, the small sound sharp in the stillness.

Cody appeared next, his gaze sweeping the familiar walls — the chipped paint, the fading wreath on the door, the wild ivy climbing untamed. A dull ache throbbed in his chest. This house, their home, felt hollow, as if waiting for its stories to be forgotten.

Millie stayed close, slipping her hand into his as they stood side by side. Between them, silence settled — comfortable yet heavy with the weight of endings and uncertain beginnings.

Aura's breath caught as she looked up at the empty windows. 

Camila stepped out last, her eyes softening as she stared at the house they all once grew up in.

Thomas watched quietly, then wrapped a steady arm around her shoulders. "We'll just make new memories."

Aura smiled faintly, determination flickering in her eyes. "Harper will be okay. We all will. One day, this will just be a chapter, not the whole story."

The sky deepened to indigo as the last light faded, and the house behind them settled into its silence — a quiet guardian of their past.

They shared one last look, took one last breath of the home that had shaped them, and then turned toward the car, stepping forward into whatever came next — carrying pieces of their past tightly within them.