I stood outside the flat for a full minute before I unlocked the door.
Not because I didn't want to go in.
But because I still wasn't sure how the hell I was going to explain this.
How do you tell your sixteen-year-old sister that you're moving her into a mansion owned by a woman you barely understand, barely trust, and definitely want more than is wise?
You don't.
You start small.
The door creaked open.
Same dusty air. Same peeling wallpaper. Same half-washed dishes in the sink. It smelled like instant noodles, cheap detergent, and the too-familiar ghost of everything we'd survived.
Tiff was curled on the couch, knees to her chest, some old film playing with the volume low. Her hair was piled into a messy bun. Oversized hoodie. Fuzzy socks. She looked up when she heard the door.
"Hey," she said. "You look like shit."
"Love you too," I muttered, kicking off my boots.
"You get mugged again?"
"No," I said. "Not exactly."
She frowned, muted the TV, and turned to face me fully. "You alright?"
I nodded. Then didn't. Then shrugged. "Depends how you define 'alright.'"
She narrowed her eyes. "Cass..."
I sat on the edge of the coffee table and braced my elbows on my knees. "I've got some news."
"Good or bad?"
"Complicated."
"Great." She flopped back against the cushions. "Lay it on me."
I let out a slow breath.
"So... I've been seeing someone."
Tiff blinked.
"Seeing someone," she echoed. "Like dating?"
"Yeah. Sort of. It's... new."
"Is she normal?"
"She's... interesting."
"Which is code for 'you're in over your head,'" she muttered. "Classic."
I grinned. "Probably."
She eyed me. "And this has what to do with us?"
"She's offered us a place to stay."
Tiff's expression didn't change. "You mean like... crash on her couch for a night?"
"No. Like move in."
Now she stared. "You want us to move into your new girlfriend's house."
"Yes."
"Who you've been seeing for what — a week?"
"Two months. Technically."
Her brows rose. "Cassian."
"She's got space," I said quickly. "Actual space. Like... a room for you, a kitchen that doesn't smell like mold, a bed I don't have to share with my jacket."
"And you trust her?"
I hesitated.
She noticed.
But before she could jump in, I added, "She hasn't given me a reason not to."
Tiff crossed her arms. "And this has nothing to do with the fact that she's probably drop-dead gorgeous, older than you like, and willing to feed your broke ass."
"...I mean," I started.
"God," she groaned. "You're so predictable."
"Listen," I said, sobering. "I wouldn't bring you into something dangerous. Okay? She said you're welcome. I wouldn't even consider this if I thought she was a threat."
"And what if she's just playing you?"
I looked her in the eye. "Then I'll walk. With you. I swear."
Tiff chewed the inside of her cheek.
"You're serious about this?"
"Dead serious."
"And this mansion... it's safe?"
"As safe as anything I've ever been in."
That seemed to hit her.
She nodded slowly. "Okay. Fine. But I'm packing my pepper spray."
"Deal."
"And if this turns out to be some creepy sugar mama setup, I'm moving into a hostel."
I stood and ruffled her hair. "She's not a sugar mama."
"You're twenty-three and unemployed."
"She's just generous."
"With big boobs?"
I rolled my eyes. "You done?"
"For now," she grinned. "So when do we leave?"
I looked around the flat — the mold on the bathroom tiles, the stain on the ceiling, the kettle that always whined too loud.
"As soon as you're ready."
--------------------------------------------------------------
It didn't feel real until I started folding her clothes into the old duffel bag.
Tiffany was in her room, muttering to herself about leaving behind half her books. I could hear the zip of her hoodie, the shuffle of socks on linoleum, the muffled thump of her trying to yank the suitcase out from under her bed.
In the living room, I moved slowly — as if the wrong sound might snap the spell and drag us back to reality. Like if we slammed a drawer or dropped a shoe too loud, the walls would close in and remind us we weren't allowed to hope.
This wasn't some landlord warning or a "we're behind on rent" panic.
This was different.
This was escape.
The bag I kept in the corner closet — the one labeled winter stuff — held more than coats. I pulled out the emergency roll of cash I'd tucked inside an old sock. Not much left. Some pounds, a few euros from that job in Camden, a single U.S. dollar bill I used to joke was "for luck."
It didn't feel lucky anymore.
I dropped it into the side pocket anyway.
From the kitchen, I grabbed the last of the tea tins — the one with our mom's handwriting on the label, faded to a ghost of itself — and slipped it into my coat. It didn't matter if Seraphine's kitchen was the size of our entire flat. It wouldn't smell like this one. Wouldn't smell like home.
Whatever home meant.
Tiff appeared in the doorway behind me, backpack slung over one shoulder, arms crossed.
"You're doing the memory-sweep thing," she said.
I froze mid-step. "The what?"
"Looking at things like you're saying goodbye but don't want to admit it."
I glanced at the half-folded blanket in my hands. "Maybe I am."
"D'you think we'll ever come back?"
I hesitated. "Not if I can help it."
She didn't answer right away. Just came up beside me and wrapped her arms around my middle.
I hugged her back, fiercely, resting my chin on her messy bun. "It'll be better," I whispered. "Where we're going. You'll see."
"You sound like a character in a book who dies in the next chapter."
I snorted. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
She pulled away and wiped her eyes. "I just want... quiet, you know? No dodging debt collectors. No hiding behind the door when someone knocks."
"You'll have that."
"You sure she's not a serial killer?"
"She collects old books and expensive wine. If she's a killer, she's classy about it."
That earned a laugh. A real one.
I threw the last jumper into my bag, zipped it closed, and looked around one more time.
The peeling paint.
The flickering bulb.
The cracked photo frame by the TV — us, three years ago, laughing with ice cream in our teeth and bruises on our knees.
I didn't take it.
Not because it didn't matter.
But because some things should be left behind like bones.
Tiff looked up at me. "Ready?"
I nodded. "Let's go before the place figures out we're leaving."
She slipped her hand into mine. "Okay."
And just like that, we stepped out into the hall — two shadows with bags slung low and hearts that beat just a little too fast.
We didn't look back.
Because some nights, you don't need fireworks or goodbyes.
Just a key turned quietly in the lock.
And the sound of a door closing on the past.