Page 10

Ten

Coming home felt like stepping into a preserved photograph—one where the colors had faded, but the emotions still clung to the edges.

The train hissed as it pulled into the station, brakes screeching loud enough to make my teeth ache. I stepped off slowly, the worn strap of my bag digging into my shoulder as the breeze carried the scent of wet metal and old leaves.

My mother was already there, waiting at the edge of the platform with a knit scarf wrapped around her neck and arms stretched wide. “Dawnie!” she called, like we were still in some old movie that hadn’t aged well. Her hug was instant, pulling me in, wrapping me in warmth that smelled like lavender and the perfume she’s worn since I was a kid. The kind that made you feel safe even if everything inside you felt like it was falling apart.

“Hi, Mom.” My voice cracked a little. I hated how fragile I sounded.

She pulled back to study me, eyes searching every line of my face. “Oh, sweetheart…”

“You’re too thin,” my dad muttered, stepping up beside her with the same quiet scrutiny he always carried like a second skin. “You look tired.”

I forced a laugh. “I’m fine. Really.”

My mom didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push. She just took my bag and looped her arm through mine like we hadn’t missed a beat. “Well, let’s get you home. You need a good meal, a long bath, and sleep in your own bed.”

The walk to the car was quiet. The town looked mostly the same—storefronts a little more weathered, street signs leaning slightly like they were just as tired as the people who passed beneath them. Something in me ached, seeing it all again. Not sadness. Not quite nostalgia either. Just… dislocation. Like I was watching a memory that hadn’t been mine in a long time.

The house hadn’t changed.

Same porch light that flickered like it was whispering secrets. Same crooked mailbox. Inside, the smell of cinnamon and lemon cleaner hit me like a spell—so familiar it made my knees weak.

I hesitated at the doorway to my old bedroom. The posters were still up, corners curled and colors faded. The shelves sagged under old paperbacks. My slippers were tucked under the edge of the bed like I’d only stepped out for five minutes, not vanished for years.

Dinner was soft, warm, uneventful. My mother fussed over dessert instead of asking too many questions. She set a slice of pie down in front of me—still warm, with sugar glistening on the crust and a dollop of whipped cream that sagged slightly to one side. “Peach,” she said. “Your favorite. I made it yesterday when your dad reminded me what day you were coming.”

I picked up my fork slowly, twirling it between my fingers.

I hadn’t thought about pie in weeks. Maybe months. But the taste melted on my tongue, and for a second, I let myself enjoy it.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” she asked. Her tone was light, but I could see the weight behind it—in the way her eyes didn’t quite match her voice. “I mean really okay.”

I stared at the dessert like it might tell me who I was.

How do you explain this kind of unraveling? The hours that go missing. The feeling of something breathing down your neck when you’re alone. The way your body moves like a puppet half the time.

“I just needed a break,” I said finally. “And I missed everyone.”

She studied me for a long moment. Then just nodded and touched my hand. “Well. I’m glad you’re here.”

So was I, Mom, so was I.

Later, curled on the living room couch with an old blanket wrapped around my legs, my phone buzzed.

Lena: You back in town or just haunting the old zip code?

I smiled.

Me: You stalking my IP address or something?

Lena: Ethan saw your mom at the store. Word spreads. You free tomorrow?

Me: For you? Always.

Lena: Noon. That café. Don’t flake.

I stared at the screen a little longer than I needed to. Not because I didn’t want to go. But because I wasn’t sure which version of myself I’d have to bring.

Still, I typed:

Me: I’ll be there.