The relief was physical. A weight lifting I hadn't known I was carrying.
Elena’s dad, Sam, stood near the fireplace, still holding a dish towel. "She's alright, son. We got her warm. Elena talked her down."
I looked back at Elena. She was still in the doorway with her arms wrapped tight around herself, watching me with an expression I couldn't name.
"Thank you." My voice came out rough. "I was searching… I didn't know where?—"
"Of course," she said quietly.
A man appeared from the dining room. Tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair. He was holding a coffee mug and looking at me with careful neutrality.
Caleb Wright.
Our eyes met and he nodded once. I returned it.
My mother made a small sound beneath the blankets. I turned back to her and smoothed the fabric higher on her shoulders, only then realizing my hands were shaking.
The rain hammered the windows. The kitchen clock ticked too loudly. Even my own breathing, ragged and uneven, seemed to fill the room.
"I called your father too," Sam said. "He should be here any minute."
"Thank you."
Sam glanced at his daughter, then at me. "I'll give you two some space."
He disappeared into the kitchen and Caleb followed after him without a word. Giving us distance but staying close enough to matter.
It was just me and Elena now. And my mother asleep between us like a bridge between two countries.
"She talked about you," Elena said. Her voice was soft, careful in a way that hurt. "Earlier, when she was more lucid." I didn't look up from my mother's face. "She talked about whenyou were little. How hard you tried to help her with things." Elena paused. "She said you were a good boy."
Something in me twisted, small and merciless.
"Did she?" My voice was barely audible.
"She still thinks that. Even when she doesn't remember your name."
I wanted to say something. Thank you, maybe, or I'm sorry. But my throat had closed and nothing would come.
Headlights flared through the windows, washing the living room in pale light.
Dad.
The door opened and he came inside looking like he'd aged a decade in the last hour. He didn't speak, didn't look at anyone except my mother. He crossed straight to the couch and touched her face, her hair, her neck. Bent down and pressed his forehead to hers.
"I'm sorry," he whispered against her skin. "I'm so sorry."
"Dad."
He straightened slowly, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and found Elena’s dad in the kitchen doorway. "Thank you, Sam. I don't know how to…" He shook his head, looked down at his feet. "Thank you."
"No need for that. Just glad she's safe."
We woke her gently. She surfaced confused but calm, didn't fight us as we guided her arms into the coat Dad had brought. She kept looking around the room like she was trying to place something just out of reach.
"Come on, honey," Dad said, his voice impossibly tender. "Let's go home."
"Home," she repeated, testing the word. "Yes. I want to go home."
