I exhaled, feeling the weight of the years behind me. “You probably noticed, I’m not quite myself these days.”


    Bart snorted, his lips curling into a grimace. “No shit, Jack. For Satan’s hairy back, you look like a damn corpse. I don’t hear from you for over ten years, just—poof. Gone. Word was you were dead, or taking odd gigs as a low-level hunter. Same difference.” He shook his head, disgust mixing with the hurt. “Then out of nowhere, I get a call, a favor, and here you are. You look and smell like the inside of my aunt’s purse. You want answers? Start talking.”


    I raised my hands, placating. “I get it.”


    “No, Jack, I don’t think you do.” His voice was tight, trembling with frustration. “You always were thick-headed, but apparently not thick enough to stick around when things got tough. When left, you turned your back on everything—on me, your friends, your family.”


    I tried to find the words, but nothing came. “I’m sorry,” I managed.


    He shook his head, his eyes dark and full of a pain that had been simmering for years. “No, Jack, you don’t get to be sorry. You get to be honest.” He was yelling by then, and the chatter in the diner fell silent, a few heads turning our way.


    He closed his eyes, taking a breath. When he looked at me again, his gaze had softened. “I can’t imagine what you were feeling, losing a daughter… I don’t know if I’d have done any different. But, hell, Jack, you weren’t alone. You didn’t have to be alone.”


    A swell of pain rose in my chest, choking me. I looked away, jaw clenched tight, fighting the tears. Not that they’d come—my undead state had long since dried up whatever was left in my tear ducts.


    I swallowed it all down—the hurt, the anger, the guilt. Bart was an asshole, but he was always a little bit right.


    I took a deep breath, let it out slow. “Okay,” I said, quieter now. “You’re right.” And then I began. I told him everything—not just the last few days, but the last few years. The whole damn story. Bart listened without interruption, just a nod here and there, his face softening as the tale wound on.


    How after Sarah died, I lost it. How I tore my life apart trying to find the bastard who’d killed her, only to find him dead, bobbing in a lake, half-eaten by fish. There was no closure, no justice. Just emptiness. So I kept running, but there was nothing left to run toward. So I ran from everything—my life, my memories, my friends. From the man I used to be.


    The story spilled out, uneven and broken, looping back on itself, details tangling. But Bart never cut in, never tried to straighten it out. He just listened, and I realized I hadn’t known how badly I needed that.


    When I finished, Bart nodded once. “Okay,” he said.


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    That was all. Just one word. But somehow, it was enough. Something shifted in my chest, like a weight that was still there but no longer quite as crushing. I hated myself for that—for feeling even a sliver of relief. It felt like letting Sarah go, even just a little bit. And part of me would never forgive that.


    “You didn’t kill her.”


    “What?” I blinked, the shock twisting my gut. Bart’s voice was soft, barely a whisper, yet it cut through the noise of the diner like a knife.


    “You didn’t kill her, Jack. You know that, don’t you?”


    “Of course I fucking know that.” The disgust rose in my throat, mixing with anger. My hands clenched into fists. “Who the hell do you think you are?”


    Bart leaned closer, his eyes never leaving mine, his words slower now, heavy with something deeper. “Jack, listen to me. You didn’t kill her.”


    “I know that,” I snapped, the heat rising to my face. “Shut the hell up about it.” My hand shot out, grabbing his collar, pulling him across the table. The diner blurred at the edges, all the noise fading into a low, dull hum.


    Bart didn’t flinch. His hands shot up, gripping my arms, holding me steady. “No, Jack. Really listen to me,” he said, his voice trembling, cracking. “You didn’t kill her. It wasn’t your choice. It was evil, and it was wrong. Maybe you shouldn’t have been working that day... maybe you wish it had been different... but, Jack, you didn’t kill her.”


    I felt the tightness in my chest spread, my throat closing in around the words I wanted to spit at him. My whole body tensed, and I tried to look away, but Bart held me in place. His eyes were locked on mine, burning, his voice full of something that made my stomach lurch.


    “Jack, look at me,” he insisted, his tone unwavering, pulling me from the dark recesses of my thoughts. “You. Didn’t. Kill her.”


    Something snapped. The dam I’d built, that fortress of denial and guilt and hatred, cracked, then crumbled. Years of grief, every self-reproach, every sleepless night replaying those cursed moments, they all came crashing through. My vision blurred; my throat tightened until the first sob broke free. Tears, real tears this time—not the hollow kind that sat behind my eyes—spilled over, ran down my cheeks, hot and relentless. And Bart pulled me across the table, into his chest, his arms wrapping tight around me, his embrace the only thing keeping me upright as my legs weakened, threatening to give.


    He whispered into my ear, his voice thick with the pain of an old friend who’d carried too much for too long, “It’s not your burden to carry alone, Jack. It never was.”


    I let it all out—the tears, the agony, the years of guilt I had swallowed. I let them fall, burning, searing down my face, but feeling lighter, as if something inside me had finally loosened its grip. It wasn’t my choice. It never had been. And for the first time, I let myself believe it—even if it was just a fraction of belief, it was something.


    Silence fell. The diner’s low hum returned, but the world had narrowed to just us—two men sitting in a booth, one crying, the other holding him up. I’ll never forget what Bart did for me that night. It wasn’t the words—not the insistence, not the logic—it was his presence. It was the way he asked and then listened, with no judgment, just understanding. It was the fact that he gave me the space to finally say it aloud.


    I couldn’t say how long I sat there, how long it took for the world to feel normal again—hours, years, lifetimes? But eventually, it did. And when I returned from that strange place, he was there: the same old Bradley Linderman, waiting patiently with that gentle smile.


    I smiled back.


    We eased into small talk, not shallow, just a way to shift the mood, like easing into a warm, familiar rhythm.