Chapter XLVI: The Room
Liz steps into Bennett's room, her heart pounding as she grips the purple candle. The room is eerily silent, the dim light casting long shadows on the walls. Just as she takes another step forward, a presence stirs behind her.
She turns sharply, eyes widening as she sees a familiar figure standing in the darkness. "Bennett?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
The figure smiles, a strange, unsettling grin. "It's me, Liz."
Something about him feels off. Liz narrows her eyes. "Prove it."
The figure simply walks over to the bed and sits down, patting the empty space beside him. "Come here."
Liz hesitates. Then, a memory flashes in her mind—her late-night video calls with Bennett. He always wrapped himself up in a blanket before sleeping. But this Bennett doesn't. Her stomach twists.
Her grip on the candle tightens as she cautiously steps closer. The figure flinches at the flame's glow. Her eyes dart to the study table, where a small bottle sits. Instinct kicks in. She grabs the bottle, and just as she turns back, the figure is already behind her.
With a swift motion, she splashes the contents onto him. A ghastly shriek fills the room as his skin melts away, revealing the grotesque form of a demon. Without hesitation, Liz pulls out the ancient sword and swings it, slicing the creature in half. The demon vanishes in an instant, leaving behind only darkness and the faint smell of sulfur.
Adrian appears at the window, his voice urgent. "Liz! Are you okay?"
She exhales, nodding. "I'm fine. It wasn't him."
Determined, she turns back to the study table, pulling out the paper Bennett gave her in the dream. First, she switches on the dim lights in the room, casting a warm glow. Then, she begins searching the drawers. As she scans the floor, something glints in the light—a key. Her breath catches.
Her gaze moves to the whiteboard, where a sequence of numbers is scribbled: 020506. She quickly jots it down in her notebook.
Then, her eyes land on an envelope placed carefully on the table. It has her name written on it. Hands trembling, she opens it and begins reading.
Liz hesitates before unfolding the paper.
The letter is dated May 17, 2024. The words strike deep.
Liz,
If you're reading this, then I can only assume one thing—you never changed.
I've prayed countless nights, hoping for something different, hoping you'd understand. But maybe, I was foolish to think I could wait forever. I've loved you, Liz, more than you probably ever knew. But love isn't just about enduring the pain someone else gives you. Love should be understanding, love should be patient, love should be kind. And I, Liz, was patient. I was kind. I stayed.
But every night, I found myself in the adoration chapel, crying. Asking God why I wasn't enough. Asking Him if I should just walk away.
I held on because I believed in you.
But did you ever believe in me?
Maybe you'll find this letter too late. Maybe you won't even care. But if, by some miracle, you do, then I just want you to know—I forgive you. I hope one day you'll see the pain I carried. And I hope, if ever I come back, you'll be different.
Bennett
Tears stream down Liz's cheeks. Her hands tremble as she clutches the letter to her chest.
Next to the letter, she spots another note. It's faint, almost invisible. She picks up an eraser and gently rubs over the paper. Slowly, hidden ink starts to appear, revealing something shocking beneath.
Liz's eyes widen as she erases the pencil markings on the note, revealing the words: "Drawer Number 2."
Without hesitation, she moves toward the second drawer of Bennett's study table. Her hands tremble as she pulls it open, revealing a small chest with a keyhole. Scattered around it are rosaries, Benedictine medals, scapulars, and bracelets—the very ones she had given to Bennett before. Her heart tightens at the sight.
She kneels down, reaching for the key she had found on the floor earlier. Taking a deep breath, she inserts it into the chest's lock and turns it. With a soft click, the chest unlocks, and inside lies a golden paper bag, sealed tightly. Though curiosity claws at her, she knows now is not the time to open it.
Her gaze shifts to the top of the study table, where a framed picture catches her eye. It is a photograph of her and Bennett, smiling, their eyes full of warmth and happiness. A sob escapes her lips as she picks it up, her fingers trembling against the frame. Tears blur her vision, falling onto the glass as she whispers, "Bennett..."
She turns toward the two organizers sitting on the shelf. Carefully, she opens one and finds a small, familiar box labeled with her full name. Her breath catches in her throat.
This is the box where Bennett had kept all of her letters—every note, every message she had ever given him. Her hands shake as she lifts the lid. Inside, countless envelopes lay neatly stacked, the ink of her own handwriting staring back at her. She picks up the first letter, unfolds it, and begins to read.
Dear Bennett,
I know you say I act like I don't care, but I do. I really do. I just don't know how to show it sometimes. Maybe I'm bad at this, maybe I don't deserve you. But I want to try, because I know deep inside, I don't want to lose you.
Tears slip down her cheeks. She picks up another letter.
Bennett,
I hate how you always understand me. I hate how you never get mad, even when I push you away. I hate how patient you are. Because it makes me feel like I don't deserve you. But even if I push you away, even if I act like I don't care, please don't ever leave me. Because I don't know who I am without you.
Her sobs grow louder. She had written these words, but she had never fully realized how much she had poured into them. One by one, she reads every letter, each one a painful reminder of the love she had taken for granted. The tears won't stop. She clutches the letters to her chest, whispering, "Bennett, I was so blind…"
She reaches the bottom of the box and finds small trinkets—bracelets she had gifted him, tiny notes scribbled on scraps of paper, inside jokes they had shared. She presses them to her heart, her body trembling with emotion. She had been so focused on her own feelings that she had never truly appreciated how deeply Bennett had cherished her. He had kept everything.
After what feels like an eternity, Liz wipes her face and carefully places the letters back into the box. Her chest aches, but now, she knows—Bennett had always, always loved her, even when she was at her worst.
Regaining her composure, she realizes she has to get out of the room. She moves toward the window, but to her horror, it is locked. The automatic sensory system has engaged.
Panic settles in her stomach. She turns toward the door, stepping lightly to avoid making a sound. She presses her ear against the wood, listening for any signs of movement. She knows she has to be careful. One wrong step, and everything could fall apart.
Taking a deep breath, Liz slowly reaches for the doorknob.