Paige's POV
The drive felt surreal. The historic movie theater was now a daycare. A grocery chain had swallowed the old general store. But the house—wrap-around porch, blue shutters, rose bushes—looked exactly as it had when I drove away.
I felt both eager and sick.
Stop it, I told myself. Clamp it down. Years of practice. Deep breath.
For a moment, I thought it worked. The edges softened.
Then I was standing on the stone pathway with my bags beside me, no memory of getting out of the car. Somewhere between park and here, I'd lost time.
"You've got this, Paige. You're not the same girl."
From the kitchen window, I saw my mother's silhouette. Smaller than I remembered.
I should go inside. Let her hug me. Pretend the last seven years hadn't happened.
My chest locked. Air stopped moving. I couldn't breathe.
Then Sasha's voice echoed in my head from a few nights ago, both of us sitting on her bedroom floor while she painted her toenails sparkly pink: "You can do this. If it starts to feel like too much, just text me. I don't care what time it is."
I pulled out my phone. Made it safe.
Three seconds later: Check trunk under jack. Love u!
I glanced toward the driveway. What had she put in there? A ridiculous emergency kit? A bottle of something unhelpful? A note taped to a stuffed animal? I didn't know, but something in my chest eased anyway. I grabbed my suitcase and headed inside.
My mother met me in the foyer. No tears. Just a long, quiet look. When I left, her auburn curls had been bright. Now there were streaks of grey. Wrinkles circled her green eyes around the edges, the kind carved by years of smiles and worry in equal measure.
She opened her arms. I stepped into them like I was still a kid.
"You're too thin," she murmured into my hair.
"I'm fine, Mom."
She pulled back and cupped my face. "You look good. Tired, but good. Are you sleeping?"
"Mom. I'm twenty-five."
Her eyes narrowed, but she let it go. Behind her, the kitchen door opened. David—grayer, softer around the middle, his hair more salt than pepper—gave me that same uncertain smile he'd worn for years, like a man still learning how to be a dad.
"Hey, kiddo."
"Hey, Dad."
He didn't go for a hug. That wasn't his way. Instead, he squeezed my shoulder. Firm. Brief. The kind of touch that said everything he couldn't put into words.
"Welcome home. Cayson should be here later. The others arrive in a few days." He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit I remembered from childhood. "You can stay in your old room tonight. Tomorrow it'll be full, so we saved you a cabin."
My heart skipped at Cayson's name, but I kept my face still. "A cabin?"
"We added six cabins about four years ago. Vacation rentals. Went so well, we added six more." He pointed toward the back window. "Three along the tree line, three by the lake, and six more where we used to play volleyball. I saved you the one closest to the woods. Figured you'd want the privacy."
I nodded, glancing around the foyer. Same coat racks. Same shoe cubbies David built the winter we moved in. I ran my fingers along the wood. Still solid. Through the doorway, I could see the same old couch in the living room where I used to fall asleep watching late-night movies.
"Go get cleaned up," Mom said softly. "Dinner in about an hour. I made pot roast—your favorite."
I headed upstairs. The third step still creaked. I used to sneak out so often I learned to avoid it by heart. Some muscle memory never fades.
At the top of the landing, a memory surfaced before I could stop it.
"Bet you can't find me!" eleven-year-old me shouted, my voice echoing through the hallway.
I'd wedged myself into the hall cabinet between the extra blankets and David's old winter coat. Hide-and-seek was my favorite game in this house—so many places to tuck yourself away. Sometimes it took Mom and Cayson forever to find me. Other times, I hid in David's workshop just to be near him. His calm voice made everything feel safe.
"Give me a hint!" Cayson's voice called out, starting deep and cracking at the end into something higher.
David had laughed the first few times that happened. When I asked Mom about it, she just said Cayson was going through puberty. Will my voice change too? I'd wondered.
"No hints!" I shouted back without thinking.
The cabinet door yanked open. Cayson's messy dark hair flopped over his forehead, his brown eyes—always the color of warm caramel—gleaming with victory. "Ah, ha! Found you."
I yelped, then giggled so hard my stomach hurt.
The smell of my mother's pot roast pulled me back to the present. My knuckles were white on the banister, nails pressing half-moons into my palm.
I let go slowly and flexed my fingers.
"Here's to only good flashbacks," I muttered, and kept walking toward my old room.40Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxrCMzvspuR
and then Add to home screen.