I slide my fingers toward him, slow and uncertain, until they touch the side of his hand. Just a brush. Barely contact. But it steadies me.
He flips his palm over and folds his fingers around mine gently. A warm, steady anchor.
As we leave the ridge behind, memories scrape at me—bright kitchens, laughter, birthdays, the smell of my mother’s coffee. Then darkness shoves those images aside. Daryl’s voice. His bootsteps. His hands. The cage I lived inside without bars.
Rafe squeezes my fingers once, grounding me. “I’m right here.”
I hold onto him so I don’t disappear into the past.
We reach town faster than I expect. The houses look smaller than I remember. Softer. My chest aches.
Rafe pulls into a gravel drive. There’s a porch with peeling paint. Flowerpots with soil but no blooms. A wind chime hanging crooked from the gutter.
I know this place. My mother’s house.
My heartbeat crushes my ribs. My lungs forget how to work.
Rafe parks the truck and turns to me. “We don’t go in until you’re ready. You tell me when.”
I shake. I nod. I reach for the door handle—and freeze. My hands won’t obey.
Rafe leans across the seat, slow and gentle, and opens the door for me. He steps out first, trots around the front, then offers me his hand.
I take it.
The porch door bangs open.
A girl—older than the last time I saw her, but with the same round cheeks and wide eyes—runs out onto the steps. She stops dead. Her hand flies to her mouth.
“Briar?” Her voice cracks on my name, like it’s been breaking inside her for years.
Her knees buckle. Tears spill instantly.
Then my mother appears behind her. Her hair is streaked with gray now. Her face is thin. Her eyes look tired in a way that has nothing to do with age.
She sees me.
She drops to her knees on the porch, sobbing so hard her whole body folds over itself.
I grip Rafe’s hand so tight my knuckles burn.
He steps closer behind me, solid, warm, unmovable.
My sister reaches me first. She touches my arm as her fingers tremble. Then she throws her arms around my waist and sobs into my shoulder.
My mother crawls down the steps on trembling hands, reaching for me, another sob cracking free.
I stand frozen, shaking, overwhelmed—but not alone.
Rafe’s hand slides to the small of my back, grounding me, steadying me as I reach—slow, careful—and place my palm on my mother’s cheek.
She breaks open all over again.
Once we make our way inside, the kitchen smells the same.
Old wood. Coffee grounds. Lemon cleaner. It shouldn’t feel familiar after everything, but it slides deep in my ribs—soft and aching.
My mother wipes her eyes with trembling fingers as she sets a cup of water in front of me. She tries to steady her hands, but they still shake. My sister sits across from me, knees bouncing under the table, biting her lip bloody to keep from crying again.
