Chapter 2 A Homecoming of Shadows

The flight back home was an endless loop of uncomfortable silences and stifled emotions. The plane hummed steadily, an indifferent soundtrack to my restless thoughts. I had chosen a window seat, hoping to find solace in the clouds, but their soft, rolling shapes only reminded me of how far away I was from the life I had built for myself. Every mile the plane covered felt like a step backward, pulling me closer to a version of myself I had tried to forget.

The airport in my hometown hadn't changed much. Same tiled floors, same faded signs directing passengers to baggage claim. It was as though time had stopped here, waiting for me to return. As I stepped into the arrivals area, the first wave of familiarity hit me. The faint scent of coffee from the nearby stand, the chatter of families reuniting, the dull announcements over the PA system - it all pulled me into a past I had tried so hard to escape.

My mother's car was parked near the entrance, its glossy black paint standing out among the aging vehicles around it. She was waiting by the driver's side, her posture rigid and commanding as always. Her eyes locked onto mine the moment I stepped out of the terminal, and her expression gave nothing away. No warm smile, no open arms. Just the same stern demeanor I'd grown up with.

"You're late," she said, her voice sharp enough to cut through my tiredness.

"The flight was delayed," I replied, trying to keep my tone neutral.

She nodded curtly and opened the trunk for my suitcase. No hug, no greeting. Typical. I slid into the passenger seat, and she drove off without another word. The silence between us was suffocating, broken only by the occasional sound of the turn signal or the tires rolling over uneven asphalt.

The town looked the same, yet different. Familiar streets now seemed smaller, as if the years away had magnified my perspective. The houses were as I remembered - neat, suburban, unremarkable. But there was an unease in seeing them again, a sense of walking into a scene that had been paused and was now resuming without my consent.

When we pulled into the driveway of my childhood home, the sight of it hit me harder than I expected. The house was pristine, as always, its white paint and perfectly trimmed hedges a reflection of my mother's obsession with appearances. Yet, stepping out of the car, I felt like an outsider trespassing on memories I no longer wanted to claim.

Inside, the house smelled of polished wood and faint lavender. My mother led me to the guest room without ceremony, as though I were a mere visitor. The room was immaculate, the bedspread perfectly smooth, the air cool and impersonal.

"Dinner is at seven," she said before leaving me to unpack.

The door clicked shut behind her, and I exhaled, letting my shoulders slump. I sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of the journey and the emotions I'd been suppressing finally catching up to me. The walls of the room, bare except for a single framed photograph of a serene landscape, felt like they were closing in. I needed air.

I left the house, walking aimlessly down the quiet street. The evening air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and earth. It was almost peaceful, if not for the memories lurking behind every corner. I passed houses I recognized, each one stirring something in me. There was the park where I'd spent countless afternoons, the old diner that used to be a hangout spot, the school building now shadowed by the setting sun.

As I turned a corner, I nearly collided with someone. He was tall, his broad frame unmistakable even in the fading light. For a moment, I didn't recognize him. Then his face came into focus, and my breath caught.

"Allita?" His voice was deep, tinged with disbelief.

"Ethan," I said, my own voice barely above a whisper.

He had aged, of course, but the sharpness of his features and the intensity in his eyes were the same. Ethan, Adrian's older brother. We had known each other in passing, exchanged polite greetings at family events, but he had always been a distant figure, someone I associated with authority and responsibility.

"I didn't expect to see you here," he said, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I didn't expect to be here," I admitted.

"Back for the wedding?"

"Something like that."

He nodded, his expression unreadable. "It's good to see you. You've... changed."

"So have you," I said, though I wasn't sure if it was true. Ethan had always seemed so grounded, so unshakable. That part of him appeared unchanged.

"Maybe we'll catch up properly later," he said, stepping aside to let me pass. "Take care, Allita."

I murmured a goodbye and continued walking, my thoughts a storm of confusion. Seeing Ethan had stirred something in me, something I couldn't quite place. It wasn't attraction, not exactly, but there was a gravity about him, a weight to his presence that lingered even after he was gone.

By the time I returned to the house, the sky had darkened, and the streetlights had flickered to life. My mother was waiting in the dining room, the table set with her usual precision. Lyara wasn't there yet, and I was grateful for the reprieve. Facing my mother was hard enough without adding my sister to the mix.

"How was your walk?" she asked, her tone neutral.

"Fine," I replied, taking my seat. The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the clink of utensils as she arranged the dishes.

When Lyara finally arrived, she was radiant, as always. Her presence filled the room, her smile bright enough to mask the tension. She greeted our mother warmly, then turned to me with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Allita. It's been so long," she said, leaning in for a perfunctory hug. Her perfume was overpowering, floral and saccharine, and it lingered long after she pulled away.

"It has," I said, forcing a smile.

The dinner that followed was an exercise in endurance. My mother and Lyara dominated the conversation, discussing wedding plans in excruciating detail. I nodded and murmured polite responses when necessary, but my mind was elsewhere. Thoughts of Ethan kept intruding, his face, his voice, the strange pull I had felt in his presence.

When the meal finally ended, I excused myself, claiming fatigue. Back in the guest room, I closed the door and leaned against it, exhaling deeply. The night had been exhausting, and the days ahead promised to be even more so. Yet, for the first time in a long while, I felt something stir within me. It wasn't hope, exactly, but it was enough to keep me awake, staring at the ceiling and wondering what the days ahead would bring.