1
Stormy
“Okay, Stormy,” I whisper, gripping the door handle. “You’ve got this.”
I step out of the taxi, inhaling deeply and letting my lungs breathe in the clean, open air. It feels crisp and earthy. The air is tinged faintly with the scent of animals and sun-warmed hay. It’s a far cry from the stale tang of cigarette smoke and worn leather that clung to the taxi’s interior. There hadn’t been many taxis willing to drive all the way out to the middle of nowhere, but mine had agreed without hesitation. He was lovely, in his own way—chatty to the point of exhaustion after my long flight, and fond of smoking with the window cracked just enough to let the breeze carry it back to me. But I’m grateful, and even more thankful to be out now.
My feet hit the ground with a soft crunch, and a thin layer of brown dust settles across the white Converse on my feet as I thank the driver and haul my suitcases from the boot, straining under their weight. But despite the staggering steps I need to take and the increasing sheen of sweat creeping up my back, the view in front of me forces me to a standstill.
The golden sun warms my pale skin as I take in the soft rustle of grass in the gentle breeze and the distant sound of birds chirping in the clear air as the mountains loom majestically in the distance, their white peaks kissed by the golden beacon of hope that shines brightly in the cerulean sky. I can’t help but think it’s a sign. A sign that the darkness is ending with a promise of light, and the assurance that even after the longest night, the sun will surely rise again. I smile to myself.
I’m here. Finally.
This right here … It’s how I’m going to—how I hope to—reclaim my life. It’s been far too long since I put myself first, but that changes now. It’s time for me to grow and move forward. That’s the reason I’m here in Montana, thousands of miles from home, ready to start afresh.
I say ‘home’, but London never felt like it. Or … maybe it did once, but that feeling vanished the moment my mum and sister passed away.
They weren’t just my family—they were my home. With whispered secrets over picnics in the park, late-night giggles under a blanket fort, and the kind of unconditional love that made the world feel safe, we had a bond that made ordinary days special. There was an unspoken understanding: as long as we had each other, we could handle anything. My mum was my guide, my quiet strength, and the warmth in my worst moments. My sister was my partner in crime, able to read my mind with a single look.
But suddenly, they were gone.
The world felt colder without them, the silence sharper. And yet, even years later, I still feel them. In certain songs, in the characters of the books that I read, in the aching instinct to share my thoughts and ideas with them, only to remember that I can’t.
My ‘father’ was absent in pretty much every way that mattered, and my first and only romantic relationship left me questioning the person I had become. I had ignored the first bruises. The faint ones that could be dismissed as accidents, the ones I convinced myself didn’t mean anything.But then came the marks that stayed, dark and deep, blooming across my skin like warnings I refused to heed.
It wasn’t just the physical marks either. Hateful looks lingered, and silence suffocated. Every word I spoke was like stepping on unstable ground, never sure if it could detonate and explode in my face. Once, I had loved Sam—or at least, I thought I did. I wanted to love him, and I thought he loved me too.
But the fights had grown crueller, and the walls closed in until I realised something. He reminded me of my father.
There was the same unpredictable anger and the same cutting words— words that could slice deeper than all the bruises combined. So, I shrank myself and moulded my voice into something softer, smaller, safer, just like I had as a child. Sometimes I wouldn’t even speak at all.
I spent years, trying to fix something with Sam that was never mine to repair. But no matter how tightly I held myself together, the pieces kept fracturing. He chiselled them away, splitting me apart.
And it wasn’t until recently, when I found myself staring in the mirror, unable to recognise the woman looking back, that I truly understood. It wasn’t who I was meant to be. It wasn’t what my mum and sister would want for me either. I was wasting my life away, and they would never get the chance to live theirs. It felt wrong, and the thought twisted in my stomach like acid. I knew if I didn’t leave, I’d never be whole again.
Finally, I made the decision to leave, summoning up the strength within me to chase my dreams. I wanted a place far removed from the reminders of everything bad—a place I could finally call home.
After weeks of relentless planning, I packed up the few belongings I had and left. I had already put distance between myself and the man who liked to call himself my father. Now it was time to do the same again. Not just to escape him, but to break the cycle.
Looking at the long, gravelly drive ahead of me, I try to push in and out even breaths. The stretch of dusty brown land leads to the ranch house. My destination.
With a final steadying inhale, I start pulling my suitcase wheels over the uneven stones, ignoring their rattles of protest behind me. I push forward. Eager. Desperate, even, to press the reset button on my life.
When I reach the house, I drop my suitcases at the base of the wooden porch steps. My pulse quickens as I climb, each step thudding against the dark maple with anticipation. My hand trembles slightly as I lift my index finger and press it against the round doorbell. The soft chime rings out, delicate yet final, marking the moment that everything is about to change.
2
Ford
“I’m still not happy about this” I grumble as I watch Mom busy herself in the kitchen by frantically beating cake batter in a large bowl.
I lean back to rest my tired, overworked body against the edge of the counter and cross my arms over my chest. Mom’s pretending she doesn’t hear the edge in my voice, and I know it.
“I thought we’d agreed we weren’t going to rent that place out anymore after the last tenants. I thought you’d taken down the listing.”
The memory of the tenants sets my teeth on edge. Their excuses, dodged calls, and vanishing act each time rent was due—those were mine to handle, while Mom fretted and forgave too easily.
“I understand you’re not pleased, sweetie,” she tells me, placing the bowl down on the counter and rifling through the cupboards to avoid looking at me.
