A chime stirred Margot to wakefulness. She opened her eyes to see tulip-shaped light shades above her head. Her back ached. Her neck was stiff. She groaned as she rolled to her side and faced green patterned wallpaper and a television playing static.

She sat up, grimacing as she moved. The curtains across the windows kept the room dim, but enough light came in through the hallway to tell her she’d made it to dawn.

The tape—Margot’s Tape—protruded from the VCR player. She couldn’t remember how many times she’d replayed the video before falling asleep. At least a dozen times. She’d hated the ending; the girl had only been a puppet, but the simplistic images and words had crawled under her skin in the way even horror films couldn’t.

But she’d kept replaying it for one simple reason: her mother’s voice. A mother who had cared enough to paint scenes and sew puppets and record a pantomime to keep her daughter safe.

Kant was right, she’d thought as she watched the images dance across the screen. They may have sent me away, but at one point, when I was very young, they did love me.

That thought was simultaneously a knife twisting into the center of her chest and a balm. Pain and cure all at once, in a confusing set of emotions that Margot had never felt before and didn’t know how to approach.

So she’d watched the tape again and again, until her eyes had burned and she could mouth each line of the script in perfect tandem. And without even realizing it, she’d fallen asleep there.

The chime repeated, and Margot hunted for her phone. It was on the floor, just a few feet behind her. A message flashed on-screen: Hope all’s well. Any ETA on return?

That was from her old manager. Margot dug her thumb into the corners of her eyes, clearing sleep, as she shambled to her feet.

She’d made up her mind about this, hadn’t she? That she would at least give the new house, the new life, a try. As she moved to the kitchen and set the kettle on, she typed out a return message: Parents left a business. Still figuring it out, but probably won’t be able to return. Sorry for short notice.

It shouldn’t be a shock; before leaving, she’d told the manager that she might be away for a while, possibly indefinitely. Still, the response she got was curt: K.

She turned the phone over so she wouldn’t have to look at the text any longer, then leaned on the counter as the kettle heated up.

This is it, huh?

She’d committed. Her old roommates would still need to be messaged, and she’d pay her share of the rent until they found a replacement, but she was slowly cutting ties to her old life.