He finds her in the closet, crying again.
It's the third night that week where he's found her bed cold and empty and upon searching the old home, found her in the closet that was once a doorway.
He opens the door and light pours in. She doesn't seem to notice.
Her head in buried in her hands and heavy sobs wracks her body.
Peter doesn't hesitant even a second before climbing into the wardrobe with her, gently closing the door behind him. He ignores the spark of hope that snow will fall once the door is closed, instead he sits next to his sister and wraps an arm around her shoulder, pull her to him.
"Peter," she gasps between sobs.
He lays his head on hers and says nothing. What can he say?
"You found me again." She states, attempting to wipe away still falling tears.
"Of course I did," he presses a kiss to the crown of her head.
Susan lays against him, tears still falling but silently now. "I can't do this."
He doesn't need to ask what she can't do. Just like how he's never had to ask why she sobs so hard in this tiny space.
They've lost so much, Narnia gave them so much only to take it away.
Peter feels his own tears prickle his eyes when he thinks about the children. Oh god, the children. Peter's glad the darkness covers the tiny tears that roll down his face.
"Peter," her voice is a relief from his own thoughts.
"Yes, my love?" It slips out before he can think better of it…old habits.
But in the darkness of this space, it doesn't seem wrong.
"How are we suppose to live in this world….without the children…without each other?" She asks.
Peter stares into the darkness. "I have no idea," he answers truthfully.
Susan says nothing else, instead she curls up beside her once husband and consumes his warmth.
They stay like that for what could have been hours, wrapped in each other, minds in a different time.
Yet a thought strikes the Gentle Queen, and she breaks the silence. "Peter,"
"Hm?" he's only half in the present.
"How do you always know I'm gone?" she asks turning her head to look up at him.
Peter feels heat burn his cheeks, and for the second time that night he's glad of the darkness.
"I heard you leave the bedroom." He lies, but it's a lie his wife seems to be content with. He doesn't want to tell her that the reason he knew she wasn't in her bed. He's ashamed of the truth. That he would crawl into her bed, seeking support from her, attempting to recapture their past. But when he found the bed cold, he knew exactly where she'd be.
He lets her lay her head on his shoulder and they sleep, heartbroken, grief stricken, but together. And in the unbearable pain that shared, that was enough.