The air in Oakhaven tasted of dust and overripe peaches, a thick August heat that clung to Nadia’s skin. At the base of the porch steps, her heels sank into the soft earth where the gravel had long ago washed away. Elias stood by the screen door, silhouetted against the peeling white paint of the Gable house. He didn't move, but the tension in his hand—the way he gripped the heavy brass keyring—told her he had been counting the minutes since her rental car crossed the town line.
"It took you long enough," he said.
His voice had deepened, losing the boyish rasp she had replayed for a decade, carrying the weight of ten years spent in a town she had tried to forget. She had skipped the funeral, but the house and its silence remained a debt she finally had to pay. As she climbed the stairs, he stepped aside, the ghost of a shrug beneath his denim shirt, and pushed the door open. The interior smelled of beeswax and stale lavender—Clara’s scent, preserved in amber. Everything was exactly as it had been the night Nadia was sent away, right down to the heavy velvet curtains that choked the windows. She reached for the hall table to set down her bag, but her hand stopped mid-air.
In the silver frame beside the porcelain vase, she and Elias were laughing.
