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home again

KIERAN

H ospitals always smell the same. Too clean. Like someone tried to scrub trauma and grief out of the air and failed miserably.

We move down the endless corridors, our footsteps dull on the tile floors. I hate it here. Always have.

It reminds me of being eleven years old, sitting on cracked vinyl chairs while adults whispered around me, pretending I couldn’t hear the word cancer being traded like an unavoidable truth.

But this time, it’s different. This time, when I push open the door to Dad’s room, he’s awake. And he’s smirking , right at me, like he’s won something.

“Jesus, boy,” he rasps, voice rough but amused. “If I’d known all it took to get you home was a blown appendix, I’d have booked it in months ago.”

The tension snaps out of my chest so fast it leaves me dizzy. I let out half a laugh and cross the room in a few fast strides. “Don’t think it works like that, old man. Maybe just send a text next time, yeah? Less dramatic.”

Dad shifts against the pillows, wincing but grinning. “Wouldn’t have had the same effect though, would it?”

Behind me, Ryder ambles in, doing his best impression of someone who isn’t still hungover. “Dunno, Bri,” he says, hands shoved in his pockets. “A promise of free beer might’ve got him home quicker.”

Dad chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Good to see you both. Even if you do look like you lost a fight with a tequila truck.”

Ryder drops into the chair with a groan. “Never drinking again, just to be clear.”

I shake my head and drag a chair closer to the bed. Dad’s paler than usual. His hair’s sticking up in tufts, like he’s been battling with the hospital sheets. But he’s still here. That’s all I care about right now. “You scared the shit out of me,” I admit, voice low.

Dad’s eyes soften a little. He reaches out, squeezing my forearm with a strength that doesn’t quite match his battered frame. “Takes more than a dodgy organ to get rid of me, son.” he says, voice rough and reassuring.

Ryder kicks his boots up onto the foot of the bed like he owns the place. “So what’s the verdict, Bri? They reckon you’ll survive?”

Dad groans, scratching absent-mindedly at the dressing taped to his side. “Apparently so. I’m stitched up like a damn teddy bear. The real tragedy is the food though. If they try to feed me one more bowl of that flavourless soup, I swear I’ll walk out dragging the IV stand with me.”

Ryder snickers. “Bet Kieran could smuggle you in a burger or something. Man’s sneaky when he wants to be.”

Dad raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? And here I thought all he was good at was looking moody and breaking guitar strings.”

I feign offence. “Wow. I drive halfway across the country, drop everything to be here, and this is the welcome I get?”

Dad chuckles, then sighs as he rubs at his temples. “Still can’t believe you came straight here. Must be the first time in history you’ve not been late for something.”

“Can’t be late when you don’t have a choice, old man.”

He gives me a long look at that. One of those dad looks. His eyes are softer now, a little glassy.

“Still,” he says. “It’s good to see you, sprout.”

That ache hits me again. Low and deep. Because it has been too long. And now, here we are. Hospital beds, IV drips, and things I should’ve seen coming.

I shift in my chair, not sure what to do with my hands. “Yeah,” I say, voice low. “It’s good to be home. Despite the circumstances.”

He nods, the silence settling between us, like he understands more than I’m saying.

She’s got a trolley with her—clipboard, blood pressure cuff, the works—and she gives us a look that says visiting hours don’t mean move-in.

She wraps the cuff around Dad’s arm, inflates it with a few quick pumps, then presses a thermometer in his ear like she’s done it a hundred times already today. He doesn’t protest, just rolls his eyes at me over her shoulder.

We get the hint. Time to go.

I clap Dad on the shoulder. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Bring edible food,” he calls after me. “Or don’t bother!”

Outside, the air smells like wet tarmac and cheap coffee from the vending machines. Ryder falls into step beside me, hands in his jacket pockets.

We say nothing for a long moment. And then he bumps his shoulder into mine. “You good, bro?”

I let out the breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding, and my shoulders drop, tension bleeding out inch by inch. “Yeah.” I pause. Swallow. “Better now.”

He nods once. Simple. No fuss. No digging.

“Hey,” I say, quieter this time. He looks over. “Thanks. For coming with me Ry. For just being here.”

Ryder shrugs, but it’s softer than usual. “Where else would I be?”

I nod, throat tight.

Sometimes it’s not the big gestures. It’s the quiet loyalty. The showing up without needing to be asked. The kind of friend who sits with you in silence when the words are too heavy.

The rental bumps along the narrow country roads, headlights cutting sharp lines through the dark. Ryder’s in the passenger seat, fiddling with the heat, and I keep one hand on the wheel, the other flexing in my lap.

He’d called Nick the second I got the news, sorted us out a car in ten minutes flat, no questions asked. I didn’t even have to ask. Just one look, and Ryder was already moving.

Outside, the world blurs—crumbling stone walls and fields shrouded in a heavy, starless night sky. A chilling wind whispers through the tall grass, carrying the scent of damp earth through the open window.

This is Rosemere. Where I learned to ride a bike, kissed a girl behind a shed, and wrote my first half-decent song in the back of a textbook.

It’s tucked into the crook of the east coast, and the village feels like it’s been here forever. Half farmland, half fog, closer to sheep than anything resembling a skyline. The type of place where time stretches out. Where life moves slower, like it’s got nowhere urgent to be.

And right now, I need that.

I ease back in my seat, sinking into the headrest, and let my eyes flick to the window as the village pulls nearer in soft, familiar fragments.

And just ahead. That same battered sign, swallowed by ivy, still clinging to its chipped welcome like it’s been waiting.

Welcome to Rosemere.

Population: Small.

Spirit: Stubborn.

It’s like time folded in on itself. Like I never left.

Ryder’s slumped beside me, head tipped back against the window, headphones hanging loose around his neck. He’s awake but still giving me space without making a thing of it.

I’m grateful for that. Because my chest is a mess of things I can’t untangle right now. Relief, guilt, nostalgia so sharp it cuts.

The closer we get, the tighter everything pulls.

The road dips into a hill, hedgerows closing in on either side like the dark’s folding in. Moonlight glints off the branches, silvering the leaves, turning everything soft and ghostlike.

I remember this stretch. The way I used to bike it with the lads, legs burning, heart hammering, wind slicing through us like we were invincible. Always chasing something. Always running from something else.

Then the road curves, pulling us into the arms of the village.

The crooked post office, with its roof still slouching to one side.

The green where we used to boot a football around until the light gave out and someone took a ball to the face.

The weathered stone cottages, the old stone pub, and a single flickering streetlamp clinging to life.

I don’t realise I’m white-knuckling the gear stick until Ryder nudges my arm.

“You alright, mate?”

I nod, forcing my fingers to loosen. “Yeah. Just feels weird. Coming home like this.”

He hums under his breath. Not quite agreement. Not quite disagreement, either. Just understanding.

By the time I pull up outside Dad’s farmhouse, the sky’s already gone black—thick with low clouds that block out the stars, pressing down like they’ve got weight. The fields are cloaked in shadow, the only light coming from the porch lamp casting a soft, amber glow across the gravel.

The white stone walls are half-lost under a tangle of ivy, and the garden gate is still hanging on by one rusted hinge. There’s a welcome mat that hasn’t looked new in over a decade, and a pair of muddy boots left neatly to one side. The kind of details that shouldn’t hit this hard, but do anyway.

It used to be a working farm before dad retired. Now it’s more bones than business. Just a few old stables at the side, mostly empty except for a couple of rescued horses. The barn’s still standing, though God knows how.

But the allotment out back? That’s where he spends most of his time these days. Rows of veg and stubborn weeds, radio on full blast, soil up to his elbows. He says it keeps him moving. Gives him something to grow that doesn’t talk back.

I sit there for a moment longer, engine ticking cool beneath the bonnet, the porch light flickering faintly in the mirror.

Home. In all its quiet, scruffy glory.

And God, I’ve missed it.

But Dad’s not here. And it’s the first time I’ve ever come back to this house without him waiting.

Ryder exhales behind me. “This place hasn’t changed a bit.” His voice is soft.

I nod, fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. “Yeah.”

Ryder’s already out of the car by the time I even get the key out of the ignition, hauling our bags onto the front step like he’s done it a hundred times before.

Because he has.

Every summer when we were younger, every long weekend, every breath between gigs or chaos—we ended up here. No matter where the road took us, it always circled back to this front door.

It meant something to both of us. Still does. Especially to Ryder. He didn’t grow up with stability, not really. But he crashed here like it was his, like the house knew his name and never asked questions.

The visits got fewer once the band took off, once the road started demanding more than it gave back. But the feeling doesn’t fade. The pull’s still there, baked into the bricks and beams.

If there’s anywhere Ryder knows better than a stage, it’s this place.