Lilly sat in the corner of the dark shelter, knees tucked to her chest, arms wrapped tight around herself like she was trying to hold the pieces in. The crumpled note trembled in her hand. Her eyes locked on it like it might disappear if she blinked.
She read the words again.
If you're reading this, it means I didn't make it.
Her throat closed. The words twisted in her gut, sharp and sour. She bit down on the sob threatening to crawl out of her, but it broke free anyway.
And then she cried.
God, she cried like a lost puppy.
She cried like something had shattered and could never be put back together. No screams, no drama just that quiet, soul-deep kind of crying that shook her entire body. Her shoulders hunched forward, face buried in her arms, and she cried like she was grieving not just Alyx, but everything she'd ever failed to protect.
The one person who trained her. Who knew her before the masks. Before the mission. Before Sam.
Gone.
And she hadn't even said goodbye.
She didn't hear the footsteps. Didn't know Sam was there until she glanced up, eyes red and glassy, and saw her standing in the doorway.
Sam didn't speak.
Didn't move.
She just watched her.
Watched the strongest girl she knew fall apart and said nothing.
And maybe that silence hurt even more.
Because Lilly didn't ask why Sam hid the letter.
Didn't demand answers.
She just curled tighter into herself and turned her face to the wall, as if the shadows might keep her safe from feeling anything else.
The note slipped from her hand, landing face-up on the cold floor.
No one picked it up.
No one spoke.
And the silence held them both hostage.