Chapter Text
The train had been slowing down for a while, but I didn’t really notice until I looked up from my book and saw the trees outside.
Stormville.
Four years is weird. It doesn’t feel like a long time until you see something you used to know better than your own reflection and realize you’ve been carrying a whole other life somewhere else.
I closed my book and shoved it into my bag, leaning forward just a little too fast like the train was going to leave without me if I wasn’t careful.
There it was.
The water tower.
Still ugly.
Still standing.
I smiled before I could stop myself.
That felt like a bad sign, honestly.
The train slowed again, metal groaning like it was also not emotionally prepared for this reunion, and the conductor’s voice came through the speakers, slightly distorted.
“Now arriving at Stormville Station.”
Home.
Or something pretending to be it.
I stood up, immediately hitting my suitcase against the armrest.
“Of course,” I muttered.
The suitcase said nothing. I respect that about it.
A guy across the aisle looked at me for half a second like I’d done something interesting, then went back to his phone. I pretended that had never happened.
The doors slid open with a soft hiss and cold air spilled in.
God.
That smell.
Pine, damp earth, leaves that had been sitting in the same place long enough to become part of the ground.
Stormville always smelled like it didn’t need permission to exist.
I stepped onto the platform and just stopped.
People moved around me immediately. Families, friends, someone crying into someone else’s shoulder like that was normal, kids running ahead and getting told not to.
I stood there like I had missed the memo.
My phone buzzed once.
I checked it immediately.
Nothing.
No texts. No missed calls. No “we’re here.”
“…Okay.”
I checked again, just in case my phone was doing that thing where it hides notifications out of spite.
Still nothing.
Right.
That was fine.
Probably.
I sat down on the nearest bench like that had always been my plan. My suitcase made a loud, unnecessary comment as it hit the ground next to me.
I opened my book again.
Same page.
Same sentence.
No idea what it said.
My eyes kept drifting away anyway.
The parking lot. The road. The curve that dipped down toward town.
I used to think about this view all the time in college. Usually when I was supposed to be paying attention to something else. Especially statistics. There’s something about being told how probability works in a room with no windows that makes your brain go, what if I just left my entire life and went home and never learned how confidence intervals work again.
So I would imagine Stormville.
Not even anything specific. Just the feeling of it. Walking down Main Street. Stopping somewhere without checking my phone first. Existing without feeling like I was constantly forgetting something important.
Now I was here.
And I still didn’t feel like I had arrived anywhere in particular.
“…Cool,” I said quietly.
The wind picked up a few leaves and dragged them across the platform like they had somewhere better to be.
Autumn here didn’t feel scheduled.
It just happened.
Like the town wasn’t trying to convince anyone it was real.
College autumn always felt like a theme. Like someone decided it was time for sweaters and overpriced drinks and everyone agreed to pretend it made sense.
This was different.
This was probably just weather.
My stomach made a sound I did not appreciate.
“Yeah, I know,” I said under my breath. “Relax.”
I tried to think about the last time I ate something that wasn’t immediately regrettable.
It was probably on the train.
Which meant it probably didn’t count.
I stood up, stretched, and my back made a noise that felt deeply personal.
I paused.
“…No.”
That was not happening at twenty-two.
That was a future problem. A “talk to your doctor about options” problem.
I grabbed my suitcase and started walking.
The wheels immediately announced my departure to the entire station.
I forgot how loud these were.
How did I forget that?
How do you forget suitcase noise?
The station behind me got smaller as I walked toward the exit, same cracked concrete, same faded paint, same clock that still looked like it was negotiating whether time was real or not.
Stormville didn’t really change things.
Not because it couldn’t.
Because it didn’t see the point.
If something still worked, it stayed.
That was the rule.
I think.
Or maybe I just told myself that because it was easier than admitting I hadn’t been paying attention before I left.
Outside, the road curved down toward town.
Main Street wasn’t far.
I started walking.
The suitcase rattled behind me, hitting every uneven crack like it was personally offended by pavement.
I muttered something that might’ve been a complaint.
Probably about engineering.
Or wheel design.
Or the general failure of humanity to prioritize quiet luggage.
A couple of teenagers passed me on bikes, talking so fast I only caught half a word every now and then. One of them glanced at me like I was familiar in a way they couldn’t place.
I didn’t recognize them.
Then I did the math.
Four years.
If I left at eighteen—
No.
Wait.
I stopped walking.
“…Eighteen.”
They were eighteen.
That didn’t make sense.
Why did my brain say thirteen?
I stared at my hand for a second like it had betrayed me personally.
“College did something to me,” I decided.
That felt accurate enough to move on.
Main Street appeared as the road dipped.
And suddenly everything was… too familiar.
The mural on the community center was still there. Stormville through the seasons. Same colors. Same faded edges.
Except—
I slowed.
There was a fox near the trees.
Had that always been there?
I squinted.
I genuinely couldn’t tell.
“…Okay,” I said again, like that explained everything.
I kept walking before I could start an argument with a mural.
The bakery came first.
Warm air leaking through the windows. That smell that hits your stomach before your brain even processes it.
Instantly, my body betrayed me.
“I know,” I said. “We’re getting there.”
A bell chimed inside as someone left with a bag bigger than their head.
For a second I almost went in.
Not because I needed food.
Okay, I did need food.
But also because it felt like if I stepped inside, something would click. Like I’d still know the people behind the counter. Like I hadn’t spent four years becoming someone who had to reintroduce herself to her own hometown.
I stood there too long.
Then I stepped back.
“…Later.”
I wasn’t ready for that version of myself yet.
I kept walking.
At some point, without meaning to, I noticed I’d started slowing down near familiar streets.
The kind of slowing that isn’t really a choice.
More like your body remembering routes before your brain agrees.
And then I saw it.
The playground.
I stopped.
Of course it was still here.
Why wouldn’t it be?
I walked toward it without really deciding to.
The gate squeaked when I pushed it open.
Same sound.
Same woodchips.
Same crooked duck sitting near the edge like it had given up on being corrected.
I laughed a little before I could stop myself.
“Still ugly.”
My suitcase dropped next to the bench with a tired sigh.
I stepped onto the woodchips.
They crunched exactly the same way they used to.
That was the problem with places like this.
They didn’t update themselves when you left.
They waited.
I sat on the swing.
It creaked under my weight like it remembered me but wasn’t going to make a big deal about it.
I pushed off gently.
Forward.
Back.
Forward.
The motion came back too easily.
Like muscle memory had been sitting here all along, just waiting.
Leaves moved above me in the wind.
For a second, everything felt like it used to.
Not better.
Not worse.
Simpler.
I let go.
My feet hit the ground wrong.
I stumbled forward, caught myself with my hands, and sat back on my heels.
“…Ow.”
I laughed a little.
Of course.
Still me.
I stood up, brushing dirt off my palms.
And then—
A voice behind me.
"You still jump too early."
The words were quiet.
Not whispered.
Casual.
Like whoever said them wasn't trying to get my attention.
They were just stating a fact.
I smiled before I even realized I was doing it.
"Yeah, yeah."
I turned around.
Nobody.
The swings behind me rocked lazily in the breeze.
The slide.
The monkey bars.
The little tunnel I used to crawl through until I got stuck in it once and refused to touch it for two years afterward.
Empty.
"Real funny."
Silence.
I looked toward the sidewalk outside the fence.
Nothing.
Maybe someone had walked by.
Maybe they kept going.
Maybe—
I frowned.
The voice had sounded...
close.
Not right behind me close.
Just...
close enough that whoever it belonged to should've still been around.
I waited another few seconds.
The only sound was the wind pushing through the trees.
A few leaves skittered across the woodchips before getting caught underneath the swing.
"Huh."
I scratched the back of my neck.
People imagined hearing familiar voices sometimes, didn't they?
That felt like something I'd read before.
Or maybe I'd just made it up.
Honestly, either was equally possible.
"Congratulations," I muttered to myself. "You've officially been home for..." I checked my phone.
"Twenty-three minutes."
I looked back toward the empty playground.
"New personal best."
That earned a laugh from exactly one person.
Me.
Good enough.
I grabbed my suitcase and headed back toward the gate.
The swing I'd been sitting on was still moving.
Back.
Forward.
Back.
It slowed naturally until it finally came to a stop.
I watched it for a second.
Then I shook my head.
"You need food."
That felt like the more reasonable explanation.
Outside the playground, Main Street had started filling up.
A delivery truck rumbled past the hardware store.
Someone was watering flowers outside the florist.
An old man sat on the bench in front of the barber shop reading yesterday's newspaper like today could wait.
Somehow...
It looked exactly the same.
Not frozen.
Comfortable.
Stormville had never seemed interested in becoming anything other than Stormville.
Maybe that's why I'd missed it so much.
Cities always felt like they were trying to become something.
Bigger.
Faster.
Newer.
Stormville woke up every morning and went,
"Nah."
I respected that.
My stomach interrupted my philosophical appreciation of small-town life with another loud growl.
"Oh, alright."
I looked up and down Main Street.
The bakery was behind me.
The diner was farther down.
There was that little sandwich shop—
Wait.
Did it close?
I stopped walking.
"...No."
The windows were different.
The sign wasn't.
Or...
Maybe the sign was different too.
I honestly couldn't remember.
How long has it been?
Four years?
That wasn't even that long.
Apparently it was long enough for me to start arguing with buildings.
I made a mental note to stop doing that before somebody noticed.
Although, to be fair, if anyone in Stormville saw me talking to storefronts, they'd probably just assume I hadn't fully recovered from college.
Which...
Honestly.
Fair.
I smiled to myself and kept walking.
A bell jingled somewhere as another customer stepped out of the bakery carrying a warm paper bag.
The smell hit me all over again.
This time I didn't fight it.
"...Fine."
I pushed open the door.
A little brass bell chimed overhead.
Warmth wrapped around me immediately.
Not just from the ovens.
From memory.
The place smelled like cinnamon, butter, coffee, and something sweet I couldn't quite name.
It smelled exactly like every Saturday morning I'd spent here before soccer practice.
For one strange second, I almost expected my twelve-year-old self to run past me toward the display case.
Instead...
It was just me.
Standing there with a backpack, a suitcase, and absolutely no plan beyond get something to eat.
"...Hi?"
I looked toward the counter with an awkward little wave.
"I'm, uh..."
I glanced at the menu.
"...Really hungry."
Immediately I winced.
"What an opening."
The girl behind the counter looked up from arranging pastries.
She couldn't have been much older than sixteen.
Maybe seventeen.
She smiled the way people in small towns smile when they don't know if they know you.
"Hi."
"Hi."
There was a beat.
She tilted her head.
"...Can I help you?"
"Oh."
Right.
"I was just..." I looked at the display case. "...Thinking."
She laughed politely.
"About bread?"
"Among other things."
I stepped closer.
Everything looked unfairly good.
Cinnamon rolls.
Blueberry muffins.
Apple turnovers.
A chocolate croissant that looked like it had absolutely no interest in helping me make responsible financial decisions.
I pointed.
"That one."
"The croissant?"
"Yeah."
I paused.
"And a coffee."
"You got it."
She slipped everything into a paper bag while I dug through my wallet.
I still instinctively reached for my student ID before remembering.
Right.
Not a student anymore.
That was...
Weird.
Not bad.
Just weird.
The girl handed me my coffee.
"Welcome home."
I blinked.
"...Thanks."
She smiled again, already helping the next customer.
I stood there for another second before stepping back outside.
The bell jingled behind me.
The paper bag felt warm in my hands.
I took one bite of the croissant before I'd even made it halfway down the sidewalk.
"Worth it."
Flaky pastry exploded absolutely everywhere.
I looked down at my sweater.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
I brushed crumbs off.
They somehow multiplied.
"Interesting."
Apparently pastries reproduced through stress.
Good to know.
I took another bite anyway.
Main Street wasn't busy.
Not really.
People drifted more than they walked.
Mrs. Alvarez was sweeping leaves off the sidewalk outside the flower shop even though there weren't enough leaves to justify sweeping them.
Mr. Carter sat on the same bench he'd occupied for what felt like my entire childhood, newspaper folded neatly in his lap while he watched cars go by.
I wondered if he ever actually finished the newspaper.
Maybe he just liked holding it.
Some people needed coffee before they felt like themselves.
Maybe he needed headlines.
I smiled to myself.
It felt nice recognizing people without needing to introduce myself.
Then I realized nobody had recognized me.
Well.
Except maybe the bakery girl.
Sort of.
Although that might've just been customer service.
Never mind.
The coffee was still too hot.
I took another sip anyway.
I immediately regretted it.
"Hm."
Excellent decision making.
Really setting myself up for success today.
My tongue burned.
I stuck it out dramatically even though absolutely nobody was watching.
"...Ow."
A little kid walking with his dad looked at me.
I looked back.
We held eye contact for a second.
Then he stuck his tongue out too.
I burst out laughing.
His dad looked between us.
"What?"
The kid shrugged like this sort of thing happened all the time.
I gave him a little salute with my coffee cup before continuing down the sidewalk.
Kids were weird.
I respected it.
I found myself slowing in front of the old movie theater.
It looked smaller now.
That happened a lot when you grew up, apparently.
Places shrank.
School hallways.
Playgrounds.
Movie theaters.
Although...maybe I was just looking at them differently.
The posters in the display case had changed.
Everything else hadn't.
The faded red carpet inside was probably still there.
The seats that squeaked every time someone shifted their weight.
The machine that never quite made popcorn correctly.
I wondered if they still only showed one movie at a time.
Actually I hoped they did.
There was something comforting about a town that couldn't decide between progress and stubbornness.
Stormville usually chose stubbornness.
It wore well.
I wandered without checking the time.
That was new.
College had trained me to look at my phone every few minutes.
What class was next?
How much homework?
Did I answer that email?
Was something due tonight?
Here time felt looser.
Like the afternoon wasn't asking anything from me.
It was just letting me walk.
I don't know how long I spent doing that.
Long enough for my coffee to cool.
Long enough to finish the croissant.
Long enough that my suitcase started feeling heavier.
"You're getting annoying," I informed it.
The suitcase declined to comment.
Probably for the best.
I'd been carrying the conversation anyway.
I looked up.
The street had started to thin out.
Shops gave way to quieter neighborhoods.
Front porches.
Maple trees.
Mailboxes I'd walked past hundreds of times.
The closer I got to home, the slower I walked.
Not on purpose.
I just felt like it.
Home had been all I could think about for months.
Whenever school got overwhelming.
Whenever I felt like everyone else knew what they were doing except me.
Whenever I'd lie awake at two in the morning convincing myself that next semester would somehow be different.
I'd picture this walk.
I'd picture my house.
I'd picture my parents.
I'd picture my room exactly the way I'd left it.
And somewhere along the way I'd started believing that coming home and feeling better were the same thing.
I stopped.
"...Huh."
That thought sat there for a moment.
Quiet.
Uncomfortable.
Then I took another sip of coffee.
"Anyway."
The coffee was finally at the right temperature.
See?
Much better problem to solve.
The neighborhood was quieter than Main Street.
Not silent.
Just settled.
Somebody was mowing their lawn three houses down. Wind chimes clinked somewhere I couldn't see. A dog barked once before deciding whatever it had to say wasn't worth repeating.
It was funny.
Cities were always making noise.
Stormville only ever seemed to answer itself.
I turned onto Maple Street, coffee in one hand, suitcase in the other.
Home was only another minute away.
Probably.
I never understood why roads looked longer when you were leaving and shorter when you came back.
Or maybe I had that backwards.
I was halfway through trying to solve that incredibly important mystery when I heard the low rumble of an engine behind me.
A patrol car rolled slowly down the street before pulling alongside the curb.
The driver's window slid down.
"Well..."
I didn't even have to look.
"...Look what the cat dragged home."
I laughed.
"There she is."
Aunt Claire grinned over the steering wheel, sunglasses pushed up into her hair despite the clouds.
"You gonna stand there or are you finally gonna say hi to your favorite aunt?"
"Favorite?"
I walked over to the window.
"I only have one."
"Exactly."
She pointed at me.
"Undefeated."
I leaned against the door of the cruiser.
"You look weird in a police car."
"I've worked here for twelve years."
"I know."
"...Still weird."
Claire rolled her eyes.
"You've been home for what, an hour?"
"Closer to..." I checked my phone.
"...Forty-eight minutes."
"And you've already started arguing with me."
"I had to make sure nothing changed."
She smiled.
"There she is."
For a second neither of us said anything.
She looked at me.
Really looked.
Not in the way strangers had all afternoon.
She noticed the tired eyes.
The backpack.
The suitcase that had clearly lost an argument with several sidewalks.
"...You okay, kid?"
There it was.
The easiest question in the world.
The hardest one to answer.
I smiled.
"Yeah."
It came out too quickly.
Claire didn't call me out on it.
She just nodded once.
"Good."
Another pause.
Then—
"You eat yet?"
"I had a croissant."
She made a face.
"That doesn't count."
"It was a really good croissant."
"It still doesn't count."
"I also had coffee."
"Cora."
"What?"
She laughed.
"You've been gone four years and you're already surviving on baked goods."
"I survived college."
"Barely, judging by your posture."
I gasped dramatically.
"I've been home less than an hour and you're already bullying me."
"It's how you know you're loved."
"...Fair."
She reached across to the passenger seat and grabbed a granola bar.
"Here."
"You literally carry emergency snacks?"
"I'm a police officer."
"I thought police officers carried flashlights."
"We do."
"...And granola bars?"
"...And granola bars."
I accepted it.
"You know..."
I turned the wrapper over in my hand.
"I always thought you were secretly handing these out to criminals."
Claire stared at me.
"What?"
"'Sir, I'm gonna need you to step out of the vehicle... and eat something. You seem grumpy.'"
She laughed so hard she had to lean back in her seat.
"Oh my God."
"It could work."
"It absolutely could not."
"You don't know that."
She shook her head.
"I missed you."
The words were so quiet they almost disappeared.
I looked down at the granola bar.
"...Yeah."
"Missed you too."
It was strange.
Not awkward.
I hadn't realized how much I'd missed hearing someone say things without expecting anything back.
Claire started the engine again.
"I've gotta finish my patrol."
"Keeping Stormville safe?"
"Mostly making sure Mr. Henderson doesn't try to chase raccoons with a broom again."
"...Did he?"
"He lost."
I laughed.
"Tell him I said hi."
"I will."
She looked at me one last time before pulling away.
"And Cora?"
"Yeah?"
"Welcome home."
I watched the patrol car disappear around the corner.
Then looked down at the granola bar.
"...Mom would've said the exact same thing."
I smiled to myself.
Then, after a beat—
"...I'm still eating the croissant first."
Home stood exactly where it always had.
A white two-story house with faded blue shutters that my dad swore he'd repaint every summer.
He hadn't.
The porch still creaked on the third step.
The flowerpot by the front door still leaned just enough to make everyone say they'd fix it someday.
Nobody ever did.
I climbed the steps.
Third one.
Creeeak.
"...Good to know."
I unlocked the front door with the spare key hidden under the little ceramic frog that absolutely no burglar in history would've failed to find.
Some things weren't meant to be secure.
They were meant to be tradition.
"Hello?"
My voice echoed through the house.
Silence.
Then, from somewhere upstairs—
"Richard!"
"I know!"
"I forgot!"
"I know!"
I smiled before I even saw them.
A second later my mom hurried into the hallway, still wearing her work badge, followed closely by Dad, who looked like he'd remembered something halfway through taking off one shoe.
"Cora!"
Mom pulled me into a hug so quickly I barely had time to put my coffee down.
"Oh sweetheart, I'm so sorry."
"We completely forgot what day you were getting in."
Dad appeared behind her looking equally guilty.
"I even wrote it on the calendar."
"You wrote the wrong week," Mom said.
"I thought today was Thursday."
"It is Thursday."
"Exactly."
Neither of them spoke for a second.
Then Dad sighed.
"I don't have a defense."
"You never do," Mom said.
"I know."
I couldn't help laughing.
"It's okay."
"No, it isn't," Mom said.
"It kind of is."
"We were supposed to pick you up."
"I got a nice walk."
"You walked?"
"It was only twenty minutes."
"Cora—"
"I bought a croissant."
Dad blinked.
"...Well."
"I think that's unrelated."
"It isn't," I said. "It's part of the story."
Mom shook her head with a smile.
"You've been home five minutes and you're already telling stories sideways."
"...I learned from Dad."
"Hey."
"I'll take that," Dad said proudly.
I looked around the house.
Nothing had changed.
Not really.
The framed family photos still lined the hallway.
The old clock still ran five minutes fast.
The smell of laundry and tomato soup somehow still lingered in the walls, even though no one was cooking.
Home.
Real home.
It wasn't perfect.
It never had been.
But somehow...
It had waited for me anyway.
Mom squeezed my shoulder.
"Go upstairs."
"Your room's exactly how you left it."
I smiled.
"I was kind of hoping you'd say that."
I carried my suitcase up the stairs two at a time before immediately regretting it halfway up.
"...Okay."
Maybe one at a time would've been wiser.
College had apparently given me a degree in poor decision-making.
My bedroom door was still covered in faded stickers.
The handle still stuck if you turned it too quickly.
I pushed it open.
And stopped.
It was like stepping into a photograph.
The plaid blanket was still spread across the bed, slightly crooked because I'd never once learned how to make it properly. Band posters covered the walls exactly where I'd taped them years ago. A stack of vinyl records leaned beside the old record player in the corner, and my bookshelf looked like someone had paused my life halfway through high school and simply waited for me to press play again.
My old cameras were everywhere.
One sat on the desk with the lens cap still dangling.
Another rested on the shelf beneath the window.
Film canisters, batteries, memory cards tucked into little bowls.
I walked over instinctively and picked one up.
It felt lighter than I remembered.
Or maybe I was stronger now.
"Nah."
Probably lighter.
My backpack still held the cameras I'd carried through college—the ones that had followed me across campuses, city streets, late-night walks, and moments I hadn't known how to explain except by photographing them.
These belonged to a different Cora.
My eyes drifted to the wall above my desk.
Polaroids.
Dozens of them.
Pinned up with mismatched thumbtacks.
Friends making stupid faces.
School events.
Bonfires.
Bike rides.
One blurry photo where everyone had clearly started laughing before the picture developed.
I smiled without realizing it.
Then my eyes landed on one photograph for just a second longer than the others.
Minho.
Standing beside me, both of us squinted into the sun because we'd insisted noon was somehow the best time to take a picture.
I stared at it.
"..."
Then reached up and straightened the corner where it had started curling away from the wall.
"Huh."
I didn't let myself think about why.
Instead, I set my backpack down, flopped backward onto the bed, and stared at the ceiling.
It still had the tiny glow-in-the-dark stars I'd forgotten to peel off years ago.
"Well."
I folded my hands behind my head.
"I'm home."
Outside, somewhere beyond the open window, the wind stirred through the trees.
Stormville answered with its familiar quiet.
And for just a moment...
Everything felt exactly where it was supposed to be.