The key stuck before turning, as if the door had forgotten how to let her in.
Emily pushed harder, shoulder against the frame, until the latch gave with a reluctant click. The smell that came out was thick with dust and memory—like pages that hadn’t been opened in years.
Inside, the air was cool and still. The curtains were half drawn, the floorboards creaked, and the clock on the wall had stopped at some uncertain hour.
She dropped her suitcase by the door and looked around.
The furniture was the same—sofa faded, picture frames crooked on the wall, the old lamp leaning slightly to one side. Time hadn’t been kind, but it hadn’t been cruel either; it had simply waited.
She ran her hand over the mantel. A thin film of dust clung to her fingertips. Beneath it, the wood was warm and smooth. Her father’s tools still hung neatly on the hooks, each one labeled in his tidy handwriting.
For a moment she felt like she was twelve again, standing in the doorway after running home from school, hearing her mother call from the kitchen.
The memory arrived too sharply, so she turned away.
The rain had stopped. Sunlight pushed timidly through the clouds, catching on the framed photo near the stairs—a younger version of her parents, smiling, arms around each other in front of this very house.
She picked up the frame, wiping the glass with her sleeve. “Hey, you two,” she whispered. “I made it back.”
Her voice echoed softly against the walls.
She walked into the kitchen. The tiles were cracked, the faucet still dripped, and the calendar on the fridge was ten years out of date. A note in her mother’s handwriting was pinned under a magnet:
*Dinner at seven. Don’t forget to pick up milk.*
Emily pressed her thumb against the faded ink. Her throat ached.
Outside, the street shimmered in puddles. The town was still quiet; the world hadn’t noticed her return.
She spent the next hour opening windows, letting in air that smelled faintly of rain and pine. Dust motes danced in the sunlight like tiny ghosts.
The phone rang once, startling her. It was Grace again.
“Tell me you didn’t cry already,” Grace said without preamble.
“I didn’t.”
“You’re lying.”
“I might be.”
Grace laughed softly. “I told you nostalgia’s dangerous.”
“Yeah, well. It’s already here, might as well let it stay.”
“You saw him?”
Emily hesitated. “Yeah.”
“And?”
“And nothing. He runs a store. He makes coffee. He smiles like he’s fine.”
“You don’t believe that.”
Emily sighed. “No. But I want to.”
They talked until the conversation faded into background comfort—the kind that didn’t need explaining.
When she hung up, the house felt different. Still empty, but not silent.
Upstairs, her old bedroom waited—posters fading, the same mismatched curtains her mother had sewn. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked out the window. Maple trees lined the street, leaves dripping silver under the weak light.
Someone was walking down the sidewalk, a tall figure in a dark jacket. Liam.
He paused at the gate, looked up at the house for a moment, then kept walking.
Emily didn’t move. She watched him until the street swallowed him in rainlight.
She lay back, shoes still on, eyes tracing the cracks on the ceiling.
The town was quieter than she remembered, but her heartbeat wasn’t. It was loud enough to fill the space he’d just left behind.
Downstairs, the clock ticked once, and then again, as if remembering how.
Morning arrived gray and thin, the kind of light that slipped through curtains without really brightening anything. Emily woke to the sound of dripping from somewhere upstairs. The house breathed and shifted around her, settling into its old bones.
She found the leak in the corner of the ceiling—a slow, patient drop tapping into a bucket left there years ago. She placed another bowl beneath it and laughed quietly. “Guess you weren’t kidding about the roof, Liam.”
She brewed instant coffee in a chipped mug, leaning against the counter while steam fogged the small kitchen window. Outside, the street was quiet. A delivery truck passed, tires slicing through leftover puddles, and then everything went still again.
She opened her laptop at the table, the screen light sharp against the dim room. A dozen emails blinked unread, all work-related—city permits, survey updates, reminders from her project supervisor in New York.
*Just checking in. Hope you’re getting settled. We’ll need your first proposal draft by Monday.*
She exhaled, scrolling through documents while the coffee cooled beside her. The town redevelopment plan sat open on the screen—bright blueprints of streets she could trace with her eyes closed. Maple Street, Hollow Creek Avenue, the lakefront walkway. Every line of progress cut through the places she remembered.
Her cursor hovered over the zone marked *Old Residential Sector.* The report labeled it *Low-Value Area: Eligible for Partial Demolition.*
Her fingers froze. That section included this house.
She leaned back, rubbing her eyes. “Of course it does.”
The knock came lightly at the door, pulling her out of thought.
When she opened it, Liam stood on the porch, hair damp, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He held a small brown paper bag.
“Morning,” he said. “Thought you might not have breakfast.”
“I don’t.” She glanced at the bag. “What’s that?”
“Blueberry muffins. From the diner. They’re still pretending it’s the best coffee on the coast.”
She smiled. “You brought food. Are you trying to bribe me?”
“Maybe.” He handed it over. “Or maybe it’s just polite.”
She took the bag, warmth seeping through the thin paper. “You always were polite when you were nervous.”
He chuckled softly. “Still am, apparently.”
He looked past her into the house. “Place hasn’t changed much.”
“Except for the leaks and the ghosts.”
“Ghosts aren’t so bad,” he said. “Means something’s still holding on.”
They stood in the doorway for a moment, the smell of rain and coffee drifting between them.
“You want to come in?” she asked finally.
“Sure. If you don’t mind.”
He stepped inside, wiping his boots on the mat. The floor creaked under his weight.
Emily set the muffins on the table. “You said you fixed the porch. It’s holding up.”
“Good wood,” he said. “Old houses deserve a little loyalty.”
He looked around, eyes pausing on the family photos. “Your parents,” he said quietly. “I miss them.”
“Me too.”
“They always treated me like I belonged here.”
“You did.”
He smiled faintly. “Until I didn’t.”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she opened the bag, split one muffin, and handed him half. “Peace offering?”
He took it, breaking a crumb between his fingers. “Not sure which one of us is surrendering.”
“Maybe both,” she said.
He leaned against the counter, watching her as she sipped her coffee. “You’re working on the redevelopment, right?”
She hesitated. “Yeah.”
“And this neighborhood’s part of it.”
“Yes.”
The word landed heavy.
He nodded slowly. “Then I guess we’re on opposite sides again.”
“Seems that way.”
“You could tell them this area’s worth saving.”
“I could.”
“But?”
“But they’ll ask me to prove it.”
He crossed his arms. “Then prove it.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It never is.”
She set her mug down a little too hard. “Liam, I’m not here to fight with you.”
“Neither am I.” His voice softened. “I just don’t want to lose what’s left of this town.”
“You think I do?”
“No,” he said. “I think you’re just tired of losing things.”
The words caught her off guard. She looked away. “You don’t know me anymore.”
“Maybe not,” he said. “But I remember the way you looked when you left.”
Rain started again outside, light and steady. The sound filled the pause between them.
She said quietly, “You ever wish you’d left too?”
“Every winter,” he said. “Then spring comes, and the town smells like maple and sawdust again. I can’t explain it.”
“Don’t,” she said. “It’ll make me feel worse.”
He smiled. “You came back. That’s a start.”
“I came back to finish something.”
“Same thing, sometimes.”
He looked around once more, then at her. “If you need help fixing this place, I’ve still got the tools.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“That’s a yes.”
She laughed. “You haven’t changed.”
“I’d argue I got better.”
“Older, maybe.”
He grinned. “Same difference.”
She shook her head, but the tension between them eased.
After he left, the house felt alive again—the smell of muffins and wet air lingering like a promise.
She sat at the table, staring at the blueprints on her laptop. The cursor blinked beside the section labeled *Demolition Candidate.* She highlighted the words and deleted them.
Then she typed: *Preservation Recommended — Historic Value Pending Review.*
Outside, the rain brightened under the first light of afternoon.
She closed the laptop, leaned back, and listened. The house creaked in approval.
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