Page 33

“I swear, every time we come back, I consider just moving in,” he says, slinging his bag over his shoulder and eyeing the front door like it might open itself.

I snort, shifting my guitar case in my grip. “Yeah? Gonna trade the tour bus for early mornings, horse feeding, and fence repairs?”

Ryder shudders. “Absolutely not. I’ll supervise, though. I look good in flannel.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, I’m your favourite.”

I roll my eyes, but let the smallest grin slip. Then I push the front door open and step inside. The familiar creak of the floorboards beneath my boots is like a welcome home on its own.

The air smells like it always has. Old wood, laundry powder, and the faintest whiff of smoke from the fireplace that never quite stops clinging to the walls. It hits before I’ve even taken my shoes off. Like a memory. Like a hug. Like a punch to the ribs.

I drop my bag by the stairs. It lands with a dull thud that echoes louder than it should in the quiet. I stand there for a second, just breathing. Trying to steady the rush in my chest.

The coat hooks by the door are still crooked. One hanging a little lower, bent just enough to remind me of the day I came home from school in a mood and yanked my bag off so hard the whole rail came down. Dad never properly fixed it. Said it gave the place character.

The rug’s more worn than I remember. Faded in the middle, threads curling at the edges where Buddy had decided the entire house was his personal scratching mat as a kitten.

Chaos in a fur coat. I side-eye the kitchen, and sure enough, there he is.

Sprawled across the worktop like he pays rent, tail flicking with all the smug satisfaction of a creature who knows he owns the place.

Mum’s photo on the hallway table, same frame, same spot. Her smile frozen in that moment before everything shifted. Bright. Steady. Like she knew how to keep us all upright. I reach out, thumb brushing her face.

Everything’s still here. Exactly where it should be.

Ryder kicks off his shoes and beelines for the kitchen. “Alright, I’m raiding the fridge. Don’t even try and stop me, Hayes.”

I wave a hand over my shoulder. “If you find anything edible in there, I’ll be impressed.”

His voice calls from the other room, “I once ate a week-old petrol station sandwich. I fear nothing, my friend.”

I chuckle under my breath and turn toward the stairs. My legs know the way before my brain does. Two steps at a time, left at the landing, third door on the right. My fingers wrap around the doorknob and twist. And just like that, nostalgia hits me square in the chest.

The room is a time capsule. Posters still cover every inch of the wall. Classic rock legends layered over one another like a shrine to chaos. A few corners are peeling. Some have a mix of blu-tac and Sellotape holding them up.

But it’s all still here. Untouched.

Old notebooks and a few dusty guitar picks clutter the desk. There’s a cracked mug holding a handful of pens that haven’t worked since 2015.

In the corner, propped against the wall, is my first guitar. Cherry red, a little scuffed around the edges, but still intact. Still mine.

I step over to it, run my fingers along the fretboard. Dust clings to my fingertips like time itself doesn’t want to let go.

Old trophies from school music competitions line the shelves, their plastic gold figures still frozen mid-guitar solo. I remember every single one. Every late-night practice. Every show Dad sat in the front row for, pretending not to tear up when I played.

And the photos. God , the photos.

I reach for one frame on the dresser. An old band shot, from when we were just four idiots with bad haircuts and a dream.

None of us knew what the hell we were doing, but we believed in it.

In us. We played in pubs, backyards, and shitty festival slots.

But we were together. That counted for something. Still does.

The bed creaks as I drop onto the mattress, the springs familiar and forgiving. It’s lumpy in the same places it always was, and somehow, it still fits me like it remembers every song I ever wrote in it.

I grab the remote and flick on the TV without bothering to check the channel. A cooking show blinks to life. Close-up shots of glossy berries tumbling into glass bowls, steam curling off saucepans like something seductive.

The narrator purrs through the speakers, her voice low and syrupy. “The strawberries should be ripe and bursting, their juices yielding at the slightest pressure...”

I blink. Okay .

She continues, unbothered, as a spoon sinks into whipped cream with the reverence of a love scene. “And now, we gently coax it into the martini glass... just to the point of collapse.”

I glance toward the window like it might offer a buffer from whatever soft-core fruit content I’ve tuned into.

“You want it bulging at the rim, trembling, but still holding shape.”

Jesus Christ. I lunge for the remote and mute it, cheeks burning despite the fact that I’m the only one in the room. The screen flickers in silence, a single strawberry rolling dramatically across a porcelain plate.

But it fills the silence just enough to let me be.

I lean back and close my eyes. And then, soft padding and a gentle thud steals my attention.

I open one eye. “Hey, Buddy.”

The old tabby strolls into the room like he owns the place, tail flicking, eyes half-lidded with that signature feline smugness. He hops onto the bed with zero hesitation, stretches out beside me, and starts kneading the blanket like it personally wronged him.

His purring starts almost instantly. I run a hand over his fur, slow and rhythmic, and my chest finally unclenches.

For the first time in what feels like months, my body stops. Stops bracing. Stops rushing. Stops pretending I’m not completely and utterly exhausted.

And as Buddy curls into my side and the TV murmurs in the background, I let the weight of the day melt into the mattress.

Let myself breathe.

Let sleep take me under.