The Sinclair house no longer felt like a museum. It felt lived in. It felt like home.
Annalise walked its long halls, her fingertips brushing over polished banisters, picture frames, and velvet curtains. Everywhere she turned, there were pieces of her life waiting to be picked up again.
In the kitchen, Evelyn was already setting out breakfast when Annalise wandered in.
"Morning, sweetheart," Evelyn said, her voice lighter these days, though her eyes still carried traces of worry. She placed a stack of blueberry pancakes on the table. "Your favorite."
Annalise sat, the chair creaking softly under her as she reached for the syrup. "Thanks, Mom."
The word settled naturally now. Warm. Easy.
Across the table, Harper scrolled through her phone, stealing glances over the screen.
"You've been pretty chill lately," Harper remarked, tossing a grape in her mouth. "Still got that brain fog?"
"Sort of," Annalise said. "It's like flipping through a half-finished book. I know most of the pages, but some are just… blank."
"Well, lucky for you, I know everything about you. I can fill in the gaps."
Annalise smiled into her pancakes. "I'm counting on you."
Harper grinned. "You're gonna need me. You're back to school on Monday. Your friends will definitely quiz you."
The thought of school stirred something inside her—nervous energy, but also excitement.
Later, Annalise wandered through her room, curious about the life she'd stepped into. Her shelves overflowed with neat rows of books, perfume bottles, and little trinkets from places she only recognized from photographs.
There was a rhythm here she wanted to understand. Favorite colors, old birthday cards, piano music resting on the stand. She ran her fingers along the piano keys, listening to the soft, uncertain notes she played.
Did I used to love this?Can I love it now?
Each discovery stitched her closer to this life. She wasn't just pretending anymore. She was learning who Annalise Sinclair was—and maybe, who she wanted to be.
That afternoon, Harper dragged her outside to the garden.
"You always used to come here when you were upset," Harper said, sitting cross-legged in the grass. "Sometimes just to get out of Mom's way."
Annalise sat beside her, the sun warming her skin.
"I must've been a handful."
"Total handful," Harper said, picking wildflowers. "But you are my little sister and my best friend."
She began weaving small white flowers into Annalise's hair with practiced fingers. The air between them was light, comfortable.
"You scared me, you know," Harper said suddenly, her voice softer. "When you collapsed. It was like you just disappeared."
Annalise's chest tightened, but the words came easily. "I didn't mean to. I'm glad I'm here now."
"Me too."
For a while, they just sat in the quiet, the breeze playing with the edges of their hair.
Downstairs, Evelyn and Daniel sat together on the couch, stacks of paperwork spread out on the coffee table.
"I don't want to push her," Evelyn said, her thumb running along the rim of her mug. "I want her to feel safe."
Daniel set his cup down. "She's doing better than we expected. She's more present. More herself."
"She still hesitates sometimes."
"She's adjusting. She needs time."
Evelyn looked toward the staircase, her eyes distant. "It's like… I keep waiting for something to go wrong. Like we were too lucky."
Daniel reached for her hand. "We're allowed to be lucky."
Evelyn squeezed his hand back. "I just don't want to lose her again."
"You won't."
Upstairs, Annalise flipped through old photo albums. Beach days. Birthday parties. Family trips she couldn't remember but now claimed as her own.
Harper knocked once and strolled in, landing beside her without invitation.
"You've been glued to those photos all week."
Annalise closed the album halfway, smiling softly. "Just trying to catch up."
"You'll get there," Harper said. "Besides, you've got me. I remember everything."
Annalise leaned her head against Harper's shoulder, feeling the easy comfort settle between them.
"I'll probably need reminders."
"You always did."
Annalise smiled. No pretending. No distance.
This life—it wasn't borrowed anymore.
It was simply hers.