I find myself turning down streets I usually ignore, drifting through one of the older, tree-lined neighborhoods north of the city. Lincoln Park, but the quiet part. The part with roots.
I slow down at a stop sign and glance to my left.
A house.
A two-story stone estate, set back from the road with a massive oak tree in the front yard, its branches spreading like protective arms. A wooden swing hangs from one of the lower boughs, swaying slightly in the night breeze.
A memory comes to life— Della that night in the park, climbing onto that swing. Her face was lit by moonlight, her silhouette against the sky. “Let’s fly,” she said, laughing and pumping her legs until she was soaring. We had talked about children, about what kind of life we wanted. A life like this.
A "For Sale" sign is staked in the lawn, looking slightly crooked.
I stare at the house, and suddenly, the vision ofourfuture hits me with the force of a physical blow. It’s another memory but a memory of a future I haven’t lived yet.
I see us living there. Della reading in the bay window as I bring her a cup of tea and kiss her softly on the neck. I see a child running around that oak tree —our child…
It’s completely, beautifully ordinary.
And exactly what I want.
A home for us. A place where she can be safe, where we can be... a family.
I pull over to the curb, my heart hammering in my chest. I pull out my phone and take a picture of the house and the sign.
Then I dial my realtor, ignoring the time.
"Dorian? It's one a.m.," he groans.
"I found a house," I say, looking at the swing moving in the wind. "I want it. Get the paperwork ready. I'm buying it today."
* * *
Della
The landing in San Diego is rough—a series of jarring bumps that rattle my teeth and send my stomach into a sudden, violent roll.
"Oof," Silvia groans as we walk outside. "Remind me to write a strongly worded letter to the wind."
I force a laugh, but I keep my hand pressed to my stomach.
"I think I left my equilibrium somewhere over Nevada."
It marks the end of a journey that lasted a little over three weeks. Three weeks of mountains, red rocks, and silence. Three weeks of healing. I even managed two more online sessions with Dr. Davis from hotel rooms in Moab and Vegas, untangling the knots in my chest until I could finally breathe again.
We grab our bags and make our way through the terminal. It’s strange to be back.
The air here is familiar, salty and warm, but I feel different. The "me" who left nearly a month ago was shattered. The "me" walking to the Uber pickup zone is... stitched back together. There are scars, yes, but the wounds are closing.
As we wait for our ride, my eyes scan the crowd. It’s a habit now.
I spot him almost immediately.
A man in a tan jacket, reading a newspaper near the exit doors. He’s blending in, but I recognize the set of his shoulders. I saw him first at the gas station in Moab but I’m sure he’s been “traveling” with us from day one.
"He’s really good, actually," I murmur.
Silvia follows my gaze. "Who?"
"My shadow," I say, nodding toward the man.
