Elena
I idle at the gate and make myself wait until both doors finish their slow outward swing. The metal is black and heavy and old on purpose, scrollwork vines curling over it. Two cameras blink green once, and somewhere a relay clicks. The last inch settles home with a soft thunk like a safe.
My pulse is too loud in the quiet. I shift into drive, roll forward over the threshold, and watch the mirror as the gates close behind me, enclosing me in a world I’m not familiar with. The world behind me narrows and seals. The gate looks smaller when it’s closing you in.
The first thing that hits me is the space.
City brain expects a tight turn and a cramped strip of asphalt. Instead, the driveway unfurls wide as a runway, bordered by hedges that are clipped so clean they look ironed. Old trees throw a shade over the lane, their branches meeting in the middle like an arch beckoning you forward.
The light falls in sparkles across my hood, winking off the windshield with every gap in the leaves.
Gravel pops under my tires where the asphalt gives way to pale stone. It’s the expensive kind that glows almost white in the sun and doesn’t kick up dust.
I spot cameras tucked into the trees like little black birds, watching. The security is the sort you’re not supposed to notice, but when you do, you can’t stop seeing it.
The air changes as I roll further in—less exhaust, more cut grass. Sprinklers hiss somewhere out of sight. A gardener in dark green pauses with a rake halfway lifted and gives the barest nod. Probably security too.
I tell myself not to grip the wheel like I’m white-knuckling a verdict. Loosen. Breathe. I can do that and still be ready to hit reverse if… what? If what?
The gate behind me is already shut.
Where would I go anyway?
The drive bends left, then right, the kind of intentional curve that’s there to pace your approach. A fountain appears in a break of hedges—a low bowl of stone, water fanning up from the center in a perfect arc. No coins, of course. No one here throws luck into a pool; they make it.
Then the house reveals itself, and for a second, I forget I’m someone who is definitelynothere to be impressed.
It’s big, obviously, but not cartoonishly big. Pale stone, not as pale as the driveway, rises out of the ground, imposing but beautiful. The roof is slate, not shingles, blue-gray and sturdy. Tall windows in rows.
There’s a covered porch over the dark wood of the double front door.
No, that’s not it. Not a porch. That’s too mundane.
I rack my brain for the word.
Portico! That’s it.
A portico that screams of expensive taste sits on top of thick columns that surround the front door.
There’s a sweep of lawn on one side with a line of pear trees that disappear around the side.
On the other side, the drive branches off with one fork ending at a three-car garage, and the other continuing around the back of the house.
I slow at the turnaround. The center circle is planted with white roses that I can already smell through my cracked window. I park in front of the stairs leading to the door, unsure if this is right or where to go if it isn’t.
Oh well. They’d just have to deal with it.
The quiet here is instantly noticeable. No sirens. No street vendors shouting. Just a couple of birds singing their beautiful song.
Something about it feels unreal. Curated.
For a heartbeat, I think of my apartment’s hallway light that barely reaches both ends of the hall, the dent in the couch from late nights with a file spread out on the coffee table, my nearly-always-empty fridge.
I think of my mother’s recipe tin tucked into my dresser, a forbidden note tucked into it, away from prying eyes.
I rub my palm over the pressure in my chest, willing it to release before I take the next step. My hand slides to my abdomen. Nothing to feel yet.
Everything to feel.
