We left at dusk.
Not because it had been planned.
Not because the decision had been carefully weighed.
It was simply the moment I realized—
There was no longer anywhere ordinary left in the city.
Once that thought surfaced, staying became meaningless.
The letters were no longer limited to the doorstep.
They reappeared in places I had already cleared.
In spaces I had double-checked, certain there was nothing left.
As if reminding me—
You can organize.
But you cannot stop this.
Dudley complained the entire drive.
The moment we left the city, he started kicking the back of the seat, saying he was hungry, uncomfortable, that the trip was pointless. His voice bounced around the car, tightening the already cramped air.
"Just hold on a bit longer," I said.
My tone was the same as always.
Not an order.
More like habitual reassurance.
He didn't stop immediately, but his voice lowered into muttering.
Petunia sat in the passenger seat, not turning to look at me.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
Her voice was quiet, but firmly held.
I didn't answer right away.
"Just a few days," I said. "Until things calm down."
It wasn't a lie.
I simply didn't know what calm meant anymore.
She sighed, but didn't argue.
Not agreement—
just the choice not to escalate.
It was how we had learned to live together.
Harry sat in the back seat by the window.
He made almost no sound.
No complaints.
No questions.
He simply watched the scenery pass, as if he were used to being the one carried along rather than consulted.
That distance felt unfamiliar.
Not rejection—
just separation.
I drove onto the motorway.
Further out.
Further away.
Not to shake anyone off—
but to find a place not yet covered.
The scenery outside the window grew repetitive.
Road signs thinned.
Signal disappeared.
Dudley fell asleep in the back.
His breathing evened out, though his brow remained slightly furrowed.
I glanced at him in the rear-view mirror and felt a brief loosening in my chest.
At least for now, he was safe.
We stopped at a small dock.
There weren't many people.
Hardly anyone who looked in charge.
I paid for a short boat ride.
The boat was old.
The engine loud and grating.
When Dudley woke, he started complaining again—about the rocking, the smell of seawater, how this was nothing like a holiday.
I told him to sit still.
"Don't move around," I said. "We'll be there soon."
He looked at me and stopped.
Not because he understood—
but because I rarely used that tone.
The sea was restless.
The wind picked up.
Harry sat on the opposite side of the boat, knees pulled to his chest, saying nothing.
I noticed how tightly he held onto his backpack.
As if confirming it was the only thing he could be sure of.
When the island came into view, I knew immediately—
This was not a place meant for staying.
A single, dilapidated hut.
Barely any shelter.
Like a fragment the world had forgotten.
And precisely because of that, it gave me a kind of sick reassurance.
There was no address here.
No number.
Nothing that could be accurately recorded.
By the time we disembarked, the sky had darkened.
The wind was stronger.
Dudley stepped into wet sand and immediately complained.
"There's nothing here," he said.
I put a hand on his shoulder.
"Just one night," I said. "We'll leave tomorrow."
I didn't know whether I was saying it to him—
or to myself.
The hut's door wasn't properly secured.
When I pushed it open, the wood shrieked.
Inside, it was cold.
Almost empty.
One bed.
One table.
Petunia stood at the doorway, looking around.
"This place…" she started, then stopped.
"It'll do," I said.
Not because I believed it—
but because I needed her to.
She looked at me, then nodded.
No argument.
Dudley quickly claimed the bed, curling into himself.
"I don't like it here," he said.
"I know," I replied.
That was the truth.
Harry stood in the corner.
He didn't ask how long we'd stay.
He didn't ask where we were.
He just stood there.
As if he were already used to
not being part of the decision.
Outside, the wind began to howl.
Rain battered the roof, growing louder by the minute.
I sat in the chair, coat still on.
My body tense.
Not from the cold—
but because I knew this wasn't the end.
If the letters truly meant something,
if that world really operated on its own form of permission—
then this place wouldn't be an exception.
Even so,
I still hoped—
that at least for tonight,
it would arrive a little later.
Near midnight, thunder rolled.
Close.
So close it felt as if it struck the island itself.
The hut shuddered slightly.
I stood and walked to the door.
The wood trembled in the wind.
At that moment, only one thought remained:
If even this place isn't safe,
then the world truly has no boundaries left.
I stood there, unmoving.
Not brave.
Not preparing to fight.
Just—
with nowhere left to retreat.