It's the drive. That's all. Twelve hours of highway and gas stations that blur together and bad coffee sitting heavy in my stomach. Anyone would feel off-kilter coming back to a place like this after so long.
The road curves the way it always has, and I follow it without thinking. Fence posts cut across the land in uneven lines—some standing straight, others leaning like they've earned the right. Grass bends low in the breeze, dry and sun-warmed. I crack the window and air slips through, carrying dust and hay and something sharper underneath. Leather, maybe. Iron. Or just animals and earth and work layered together.
It smells like home.
My shoulders go rigid, but I don't slow down.
I glance at the rearview mirror and the woman staring back doesn't belong here anymore. Hair pulled back because it's practical, not because it looks good. Dark circles I haven't bothered to hide. There are always meetings to get to, deadlines to hit, presentations to clients who think "operational efficiency" means magic instead of hard work.
Five years in Denver doing strategy consulting. Long hours, good money, a title that impresses people at cocktail parties—people who've never seen me barefoot in the dirt or sunburned from a full day of ranch work. I'm good at it. The data analysis, the presentations, the careful language that makes hard truths sound like opportunities.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder—a Slack notification from my boss, another from a colleague asking about deliverables. I silence it and keep driving.
My phone rings just as the town sign comes into view.
I answer without looking. "Hey, Shae."
"Oh my god." Shaelynn's voice fills the car, loud and bright and impossible to ignore. "You're actually doing it. You're actually coming back."
"I'm literally five minutes out."
"Holy shit. This is real. You're really here."
I can hear the grin in her voice, the disbelief threading through every word.
"Don't make it a thing," I say.
"Too late. It's already a thing. Do you have any idea how fast word's gonna spread?"
My stomach tightens. "Great."
"I'm serious, Hazel. People are gonna lose their minds."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
She laughs. "Good. You deserve to squirm a little."
I huff. "Thanks for the support."
"Always." A pause, and her voice softens. "How are you feeling? Really?"
I watch the town sign pass—Welcome to Ashford Ridge, paint chipped and sun-faded but still standing.
"I don't know yet," I say honestly.
"Fair enough. Well, I'm glad you're back. Even if it's temporary."
"It is temporary."
"Sure it is." Her tone says she doesn't believe me for a second. "Call me when you're settled. I want to hear everything."
"There's nothing to tell."
"Liar. Call me."
She hangs up before I can argue, and I set the phone down, tightening my grip on the wheel.
Main Street appears in pieces the way it always has.
