She is alive. Sara is alive.
“It was a dream,” I said. “Just another Manderley dream.”
I knew better, but I also knew I was going back to sleep, and right then that seemed like the important thing. As I drifted off, I thought in a voice that was purely my own: She is alive. Sara is alive.
And I understood something, too: she belonged to me. I had reclaimed her. For good or ill, I had come home.
