I stood in the doorway, mesmerized by her actions. My daughter was home. Every passing minute brought her closer and edged the nightmare of the woods away. By tomorrow, she would be normal. I closed my eyes and swallowed the lie. Tomorrow, she would be back to herself. I swallowed again and tasted something bitter. Belief in a lie is as seductive as the lie itself, but I would never let her go, not again, and that was the truth.
“Remember,” she said, and pointed at a picture of us on her dresser. Taking it, she turned and held it out. “Daddy, what happened?”
I rushed to her and took her in my arms. “You had an accident is all, a terrible accident, but you’re home now. You’re home and this is your room. These are your things!” I turned her around and watched as she scanned the bed, the closet, then her eyes rested on the windows and the blackness beyond.
“One day,” she said softly. “One day and then…I go.” She trembled.