Returning home, Rose walked through the house with a quiet steadiness. The silence no longer felt ominous. It felt earned. In the following weeks, she cleared out the bunker inch by inch—no longer a secret, no longer a threat. Eventually, she filled it with canvases, brushes, and light.
It became her studio—a space built on fear, now reshaped by choice. Where panic once lived, color bloomed. She didn’t look over her shoulder anymore. At night, she brewed her tea, opened the window, and slept soundly. The house was finally hers. And this time, completely.