We reach the third floor, and she opens the door with a gentle push.
And there it is.
My room. The same sloped ceiling and bright white walls. The same patchwork quilt folded neatly at the foot of the bed. The same window overlooking the quiet street, the lake breeze sneaking through the curtains.
Everything is exactly as I left it.
I step inside, the air carrying that faint scent of sandalwood and college books.
For a second, I’m twenty-one again—full of hope, heart wide open, dreaming of futures that never came true.
“I’ll let you settle in,” Jane says softly, lingering in the doorway. “You’ll find everything you need in the closet.”
I nod, my throat tight. “Thank you, Jane. For… everything.”
She gives me one last, knowing smile. “Always, Della. This will always be your home, too.”
Then she leaves, her footsteps fading down the stairs.
I sit on the edge of the bed, fingers tracing the familiar patterns in the quilt.
And suddenly, it’s too much.
The weight of memories. The ache of what’s been lost.
The war I’ve been fighting with myself since the moment I stepped off that plane…
I bury my face in my hands, breathing deep, steadying myself.
“You’re not that girl anymore,” I whisper into the quiet, the words meant to anchor me. “You’re stronger now. Nothing can touch you.”
But as I lie back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling I used to dream under… I know it’s a lie.
Because no matter how composed I try to be, some memories don’t ask for permission. And now, sitting on the edge of the bed, I feel it—not like a ghost, but like heat rising through skin that still remembers.
Just for a moment, I close my eyes.
The press of his mouth against mine in the dark pulse of the club. The light touch of his fingers brushing my wrist in the lobby. His voice — low, quiet, too familiar—saying my name like it still meant something to him.
I draw in a breath, sharp and deliberate, willing it all to fade away.
But it doesn’t. It stays—vivid, close, uninvited.
I tell myself it means nothing. That I’ve moved on. That I’ve built walls too high for him to cross.
But the ache beneath my ribs says otherwise.
* * *
Sunday unfolds like a quiet dream.
I walk through the sleepy streets, down to Lake Michigan.
The wind off the water is soft, carrying the scent of late spring and soon to be summer. I wander through the peaceful gardens surrounding the Bahá'í Temple, letting the stillness settle into my bones. Even here, in the heart of the calm, the past has a way of finding me.
Suddenly, my phone buzzes. Unknown number.
I don’t need to guess. I already know.
