The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 412

On a late August afternoon, sunlight slanted through the steel window frames, scattering golden fragments across the floorboards.

Sloane sat cross-legged on her old wooden bed, a thick Introduction to Psychology textbook resting on her lap. Loose-leaf papers covered in meticulous notes were scattered around her.

Her hair was carelessly clipped back, a few stray strands framing her face, catching the light and turning a soft chestnut brown.

Ring! The doorbell chimed.

She marked her page, walked to the door, and pulled it open. The bright light made her squint for a second before she recognized the man standing there.

Garrison.

He stood in the doorway wearing a light gray dress shirt, the sleeves neatly rolled to his forearms, holding a black leather briefcase.

He looked much better than he had two months ago. His jawline was still sharp, but the sickly hollowness was gone. The afternoon sun hit his back, casting a faint, golden halo around him.

"Dr. Foster," Sloane said, opening the door wider and stepping aside. "It's been a while."

"It has," he replied.

It had been nearly two months since he last stepped foot in this apartment.

Sloane walked to the tiny kitchen and poured him a glass of water.

It was a cheap glass, the kind you buy for a dollar at the corner store, printed with faded blue ripples. She set it on the coffee table as Garrison took a seat on the sofa, his eyes naturally scanning the cramped space.

The pothos on the windowsill was thriving, its vines climbing several inches up the frame, the leaves glossy and clearly well-tended.

A small, thrifted bookshelf sat in the corner, neatly stacked with psychology textbooks and borrowed sheet music from the library.

Notice of Reinstatement.

She stared at the words for a long time before her eyes drifted down to the small ID photo in the corner. It was her!

It was a picture she hadn't seen before, but it captured exactly how she looked now. Not the ponytailed girl from a decade ago, but the woman she was today, with eyes that held the resilient weight of time.

Beneath the photo was a name. Not 'Sloane Taylor.' Two unfamiliar words.

"Sloane Sutton."

Her finger brushed over the name as she looked up at Garrison, her brows pulling together.

"What... what does this mean?"