The next morning, the sun, a brazen thief, poured through the gaps in the old blinds, stealing my sleep and warming my face before I was anywhere near ready to surrender to consciousness. I blinked against the intrusive light, a reluctant rebel against the dawn, and stretched languidly, groaning as the sharp stab of stiffness in my back served as a rude reminder that I’d succumbed to exhaustion and fallen asleep on the couch halfway through the chaotic process of unpacking. A cold cup of tea, brewed sometime yesterday, sat forlornly on the dusty table beside me, untouched and unwanted. I reached for it anyway, driven by a need for something familiar, sipped, and winced. The stale brew tasted like regret.

Outside, beyond the aged windowpanes, Havenwood was already alive. A symphony of birds chirped their morning greetings, someone’s lawnmower buzzed a discordant drone nearby, and a dog barked in the distance, its voice echoing off the close-set houses. Familiar sounds. Comforting sounds. The kind I hadn’t realized I’d missed until now, the reassuring hum of a life I’d left behind.

I hauled myself upright, my joints protesting with every movement, and padded into the kitchen, my bare feet cool against the worn tile. The family photo I’d deliberately left on the counter, a silent sentinel against the encroaching grief, stared back at me. Ryan’s irrepressible gap-toothed grin, forever frozen in youthful exuberance. Mom’s soft, loving eyes, crinkled at the corners from years of gentle laughter. Dad’s steady hand on her shoulder, a symbol of unwavering strength and support. I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat a sharp, painful knot, and turned away before I could succumb to the familiar pull of tears.

Instead, I threw on a pair of well-worn jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, relics from a more carefree time, tied my hair up into a messy bun, and made the impulsive decision to go out for a walk. Maybe grab some coffee. Havenwood only had one real café—Birdie’s Beanery, a local institution owned by Birdie herself, a woman who used to sneak us free cookies when Mom wasn’t looking, her eyes twinkling with conspiratorial delight. If it was still open, I figured I owed it, and Birdie, a visit.

As I locked the door behind me, the metallic click echoing in the silent hallway, I heard someone on the stairs.

“Morning, neighbor,” Astrid called, her voice a cheerful balm, infused with that inherent Southern warmth that could make even the most mundane greeting sound like a hymn. She wore paint-splattered overalls, a testament to her artistic soul, and a white bandana tied around her head, holding back a wave of fiery red hair. “Sleep good?”

“Not really,” I admitted, the words tumbling out before I could filter them. “Still settling in. Place feels…smaller than I remember.”

She chuckled, a rich, earthy sound. “Everything in Havenwood feels smaller when you’ve been gone a while, sugar. Like it shrank while you were away, saving space for you to come back.”

I smiled at that, a genuine curve of my lips that felt foreign and unfamiliar. “You painting today?”

“Yup. Commission for the church.” She pointed to the streaks of cerulean and peach that adorned her arm like a vibrant, abstract bracelet. “Jesus and sunflowers. That’s what they asked for. Thought it was a weird combo at first, but hey, He made the sunflowers, didn’t He?”

I laughed, the sound a little rusty, a little unsure, but still there. She nodded toward the street, her eyes bright and knowing.

“You headed out?”

“Yeah. Birdie’s still open?”

“Sure is. Tell her Astrid says hi, and that I’m still waiting on those molasses cookies she promised last Christmas. She swears she'll get around to them one of these days!"

I promised I would, then started down the sidewalk, the gentle breeze soft against my face, carrying with it the scent of fresh earth and the lingering aroma of distant rain. I passed the little bookstore that used to host Friday night poetry readings, the worn sign promising "Worlds Within," the gas station where I received my first, and most embarrassing, speeding ticket, and the park where Ryan once fell off the monkey bars and broke his arm, an event that resulted in a bright red cast covered in get-well messages. Ghosts of old memories lingered in every corner, whispering stories of a life that both was and wasn't mine anymore.

Birdie’s looked exactly the same, as if time had somehow bypassed it, leaving it untouched. The faded awning, sporting a cheerful, if slightly peeling, depiction of a robin perched on a coffee cup, the hand-painted sign proclaiming "Birdie's Beanery: Where Friends Meet and Coffee Flows." I stepped inside and was instantly greeted by the familiar, comforting scent of cinnamon, freshly ground coffee beans, and the tantalizing aroma of something baking in the back.

Birdie herself appeared behind the counter, older than I remembered, her face etched with the graceful lines of time and experience, but with the same mischievous grin that could light up a room. “Well, I’ll be,” she said, wiping her hands on her worn, flour-dusted apron. “Lily Warrens. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

We hugged, a warm, enveloping embrace that felt like sinking into a soft, familiar quilt, and I almost cried again. Something about her, about this place, felt like coming home, like a missing piece of myself had finally clicked back into place.

“You back for good?” she asked, her eyes searching mine with undisguised hope.

I hesitated, the question hanging in the air like a fragile, unspoken truth. “I’m not sure yet.”

“Well,” she said, pouring me a steaming cup of coffee without even asking what I wanted, her movements practiced and fluid, “we’ll take you for as long as we can get you. Sometimes, Lily, home is where you need to be, even if you don't realize it yet.."

I sat at the window, sipping slowly, letting the rich, dark coffee warm me from the inside out, watching life move outside, a tableau of everyday moments unfolding before my eyes. Kids on bikes, their laughter echoing in the crisp morning air. An old man walking his beagle, the dog’s tail wagging a joyful rhythm. Familiar strangers and strange familiarity, a comforting paradox that only Havenwood could offer.

Then I saw him.

Ethan Mercer. Across the street, leaning against the side of the hardware store, his shoulder casually pressed against the faded brick, talking to one of the clerks. His dark hair was a little messy, falling across his forehead in a way that was both endearing and slightly rebellious, but his posture was easy—casual, like he belonged there. Like he always had.

His eyes flicked across the street, a fleeting glance that somehow managed to find mine, holding my gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

He smiled, a slow, easy curve of his lips that sent a surprising jolt through my system, and raised a hand in greeting. Not surprised. Not awkward. Simply…welcoming.

I blinked, startled by the unexpected encounter, but managed to smile back, a shaky, uncertain response.

He pushed himself off the wall and crossed the street, hands tucked casually into his pockets, like it was nothing, like we weren’t carrying years of unspoken history between us.

“Didn’t expect to see you so soon,” he said, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down my spine.

“Small town,” I replied, suddenly hyper-aware of the way my stomach flipped a little, the unexpected rush of adrenaline. “You live here long?”

“Couple months now. Moved into the unit when it opened up."

I nodded, trying to keep my expression neutral, to mask the sudden, unexpected surge of emotion. “How do you like it?”

“It’s quiet. Feels…right.”

Something about the way he said it, the slight hesitation in his voice, the subtle undercurrent of something deeper, made me pause. But then he was smiling again, and it was hard to read anything else into it. The old Ethan, the one that knew me better than I knew myself, was gone. A new Ethan stood before me.

We chatted a few minutes more—about the town, the weather, his new job at the auto shop. He was easy to talk to, as always. Friendly. Familiar.

And yet, something about him, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, made my skin prickle with a strange, uneasy feeling.

Later that afternoon, back in my apartment, the unpacked boxes looming like silent, accusing judges, I opened the blinds and looked out, drawn by an inexplicable impulse.

His car was still parked in the same spot, directly across from my building. The blinds in his apartment were drawn, pulled down tight, blocking out the light. Impenetrable.

But I felt them.

Eyes.

Even behind the closed blinds, behind the darkened windows, I felt the weight of his gaze.

Watching.