Seeing Freya's crimson eyes open and truly aware overwhelmed Myra with a tidal wave of relief and pure joy, and she burst into tears. Her embrace tightened around Freya, a fierce hug that conveyed all the fear and love she had held within her during the long days of Freya’s slumber. “Oh, Freya,” she sobbed, her voice muffled against Freya’s shoulder, “I was so scared. I thought… I thought I had lost you.” Each word was punctuated by a heartfelt squeeze, a desperate clinging to the woman who had returned to her.

  After a long moment spent simply holding each other, a silent nguage of reassurance passing between them, Myra finally eased her embrace slightly. She looked into Freya’s still-tired eyes, her own filled with a lingering tenderness. “There are so many things I want to talk to you about, Freya,” she said softly, her hand gently caressing the side of Freya’s face. “About what happened… about everything.”

  But seeing the exhaustion etched on Freya’s features, the lingering paleness of her skin, Myra knew that their long-awaited conversation would have to wait. “But first,” she continued, her voice filled with gentle concern, “you need to rest. You’ve been through so much.” She leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Freya’s forehead. “I’ll come back tomorrow, Freya. I promise. I won’t leave you again.”

  As Myra left the antique shop and walked back towards the vilge, her heart fluttered with a mixture of relief and a lingering unease. Seeing Freya awake and seemingly recovered had eased a great weight from her shoulders, but the disquieting sight of the locked door and Amelia's lingering presence hung heavy in the air. The events of the past week, the unanswered questions swirling in her mind, and the unsettling feeling that they were far from safe now clouded her thoughts.

  She knew she had to expin her own absence, the worry about her grandmother, and why she hadn’t returned to Freya sooner. But more than that, she needed to understand how Gareth knew Freya’s name and seemed to be aware of her connection to the antique shop. The pieces of that puzzle felt unsettling, and she hoped Freya could shed some light on the matter and help dispel the lingering unease within her.

  The next morning, as a pale sun tentatively peeked over the horizon, casting long, skeletal shadows across the vilge, Myra reached the antique shop, a familiar wave of longing washing over her like a gentle tide. She reached for the door handle, her heart quickening with the expectation of seeing Freya again. But as she tried to push the door inward, she met with resistance. It was locked.

  Oh no, Myra's thoughts raced, a cold dread creeping into her heart. Has she changed her mind? Does she wish she hadn't woken up? Does she regret… us?

  “Freya?” Myra called out softly, her voice carrying a hint of apprehension. “I know you’re there.” She gently knocked on the wooden panel, her knuckles rapping softly against the aged surface. “Please… open the door.”

  Inside, Freya stood just behind the closed door, her hand hovering near the tch but not quite touching it. She heard Myra’s voice, the familiar sound both a comfort and a source of renewed turmoil. The memory of her primal hunger, the terror in Myra’s eyes, still haunted her. A deep-seated shame held her rooted to the spot, unable to face the woman she had almost harmed. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken emotions and unanswered questions.

  A wave of self-reproach crashed over Freya as she stood behind the closed door, Myra’s gentle knocks echoing in the stillness. The memory of waking up on the mountain, held in Myra's arms, and the coppery taste of blood in her mouth sent a shiver of horror through her. Her gaze fell to Myra’s arm, her sensitive senses immediately picking up the lingering scent of blood. She noticed the clumsy wrapping of fabric, a makeshift bandage that spoke volumes of the events on the mountain. She gave me her blood, Freya realized, the selfless act a stark contrast to her own terrifying reaction upon awakening.

  A profound sense of guilt washed over her, mingling with the lingering shame of her near-attack. She missed Myra with a fierce ache – the warmth of her embrace, the unwavering love in her eyes. But the fear of her own nature, the monstrous hunger that had almost consumed her, kept her paralyzed. What if I can't control it next time? Freya questioned herself, her crimson eyes clouding with worry. What if I truly hurt Myra again? How can I face her when I feel so ashamed of what almost happened? The thought of her seeing my monstrous side again… it’s unbearable.

  Yet, another fear began to gnaw at her, a sharp counterpoint to her self-doubt. But what if I don’t open the door? Freya’s thoughts raced anxiously. What if I keep hiding? Will Myra finally give up on me? Will she think my silence means I don't want her and just… walk away? Leave me alone again in all this echoing emptiness? The thought was a painful twist of the knife, making her already conflicted emotions even more unbearable.

  “Freya,” Myra’s voice came softly through the wooden door, clear and filled with a gentle understanding. "I said I would be back tomorrow. And here I am. I’m not going anywhere, not unless you tell me to.” There was a pause, a beat of hopeful silence. “Please, Freya. Let me in. Let’s just… talk.”

  “If you need more time, Freya, I understand,” Myra’s voice carried through the door, ced with unwavering patience. “I said I’d be back tomorrow, and I will. And the day after that, and the day after that, if that’s what it takes.”

  True to her word, Myra returned the following morning, the sun just beginning to paint the sky with soft hues. She knocked gently, her heart filled with a quiet hope. When there was no answer, she didn’t despair. She understood Freya was in a fragile state, battling not only the remnants of her ordeal but also the complexities of her own nature.

  Later that evening, as twilight began to descend, Myra returned again. Another soft knock, another silent plea sent through the solid wood. She didn’t push, didn’t demand. Her presence was a constant reassurance, a silent testament to her commitment. Myra knew that trust, especially after the events of the past days, couldn’t be forced. She would simply be there, a steady presence on the other side of the door, waiting for Freya to find her own way back. She would give Freya the time and space she needed, holding onto the belief that their connection, however fragile it might feel at this moment, was worth fighting for.

  Days blurred into a quiet routine, punctuated by the soft rhythm of Myra’s persistent knocks. Each gentle rap on the door was like another strike against the invisible bars of Freya’s self-imposed prison, another attempt to break down the gilded cage of her fear and guilt. At night, especially, the silence of the shop amplified the echo of Myra’s presence just beyond the threshold.

  Tonight was different. When Myra’s familiar knock came, Freya remained still, her breath held tight in her chest. But instead of the usual sound of Myra’s retreating footsteps fading into the night, Freya sensed a shift. A subtle rustling outside, the soft crunch of leaves. Curiosity, a flicker of something other than fear and shame, stirred within her.

  Moving with cautious silence, Freya approached the back windows of the antique shop, peering through the dusty panes into the moonlit garden. There, nestled at the base of an old, gnarled tree, sat Myra. Her figure was small and still in the shadows, but the moonlight caught the curve of her cheek, the patient set of her shoulders. Freya’s brow furrowed. Why was Myra still here? Why hadn’t she simply gone home as she always did? A knot of confusion and a hesitant stirring of hope tightened in Freya’s chest.

  Gazing at Myra’s quiet form beneath the tree, a torrent of conflicting emotions surged through Freya. Shame and fear warred with a desperate longing for connection. She knew she had been pushing Myra away, her silence a wall built out of guilt and the terror of her own nature. But then, a memory surfaced – a soft promise whispered in a moment of vulnerability, a commitment not to shut Myra out.

  The weight of that broken promise settled heavily in Freya’s heart. With a deep, unsteady breath, she resolved to try. Each step she took towards the front door felt like dragging herself through thick mud, the fear of what might happen when she faced Myra a heavy shackle on her spirit. Yet, the memory of her promise, the image of Myra’s unwavering presence, compelled her forward.

  Finally, she reached the back garden, her movements slow and hesitant. She saw Myra still sitting at the base of the tree, her gaze fixed on some distant point. Taking another deep breath, Freya moved silently until she stood just behind Myra, the cool night air and the rustling leaves the only witnesses to their uncertain reunion.

  A subtle shift in the air, a nearly imperceptible rustle of leaves, alerted Myra to Freya’s presence. She turned her head slowly, her heart skipping a beat at the sight of the vampire standing just behind her. A gentle smile bloomed on Myra’s lips, a silent acknowledgment of Freya’s brave step. “Hello, Freya,” she said softly, her voice carrying a warmth that belied the cool night air. “Please… come sit with me.” She gestured to the space beside her at the base of the tree. “The air is so nice tonight. And the stars… they’re so bright.”

  Freya hesitated for a moment, her gaze flickering between Myra and the empty space beside her. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she came forward and sat down, leaving a small but noticeable distance between them. Myra didn’t push, respecting the space Freya needed. She simply continued to look up at the star-dusted sky, a peaceful silence settling between them.

  After a few quiet moments, Myra gently shifted closer to Freya, the cool night air a reminder of the vampire’s lower body temperature. Without a word, she carefully unfolded her woolen coat and draped it around Freya’s shoulders, tucking it in gently. The simple gesture was an offering of warmth and care, a silent reassurance of her unwavering affection.

  Freya looked down at the coat, her fingers lightly touching the soft wool. She then gnced at Myra, a flicker of something akin to gratitude in her crimson eyes. The distance between them might still be there, but it felt less vast now, bridged by the unspoken emotions and the simple act of kindness under the watchful gaze of the starlit sky.