The front steps creak ominously under Maceo’s boots. He sets my luggage down with gentle care.
Ezra looks at me directly. “Do you want us to stay?”
The question surprises me so much it steals my words for several heartbeats.
I stare at the house with its peeling paint and watchful windows. At the ivy claiming the walls. At the deep silence waiting inside.
Then I glance at the three of them, Maceo’s confident, easy grin. Ezra’s careful steadiness. Lucien’s calm, knowing presence that seems to settle the very air around him.
I want to say yes. The word sits right there on my tongue, ready, but my pride wins, the way it always does.
“I’ll be fine,” I lie smoothly.
Lucien’s violet eyes narrow just slightly, like he can taste the dishonesty. He doesn’t call me on it, though, and I’m grateful.
Maceo steps back from the porch, hands sliding into his pockets. “We’ll check on you,” he says like it’s an established fact, not an offer up for negotiation.
Ezra nods once, decisive. “Tomorrow.”
Lucien watches me for an extra beat, intense enough to make my skin warm. “Keisha,” he says, voice softer now, careful. “Welcome home.”
My breath catches again, sharp and completely traitorous. This man and his welcomes.
“This doesn’t feel like home,” I manage.
Lucien’s smile is almost gentle, understanding something I don’t. “That doesn’t matter.”
Maceo heads back toward the truck with easy strides. Ezra follows, moving with that same quiet efficiency. Lucien is last to leave, pausing just before he climbs into the cab.
He looks back at me one final time. The corner of his mouth lifts in an expression that’s equal parts knowing and entertained, like he’s already anticipating the beautiful mess I’m about to make of this situation.
Then he climbs in with easy fluidity.
The engine roars to life, loud and steady and somehow reassuring, and the truck pulls away from the curb with a smooth rumble, rolling back down the street toward the main road that leads to the rest of the magical town.
I stand alone on the weathered porch, soaked to the skin and exhausted down to my bones, holding my dead phone like it has personally betrayed me. Maceo’s number sits inked into my palm like a tether I didn’t ask for but find myself grateful to have.
The tow truck disappears around the bend, taking its three impossible passengers with it.
Silence falls around me as Thorne Manor waits at my back, patient and expectant.
I turn slowly, facing the front door with its faded paint and brass hardware that’s probably older than I am. The key is in my bag, waiting. Heavy and cold and real.
My hands plant firmly on my hips, wet dress still clinging uncomfortably, boots squelching with every small movement, hair probably completely ruined under this makeshift plastic-bag situation that I’m refusing to acknowledge.
A laugh slips out of me, quiet and disbelieving and tinged with the kind of hysteria that comes from too much change happening too fast.
“Alright,” I tell the house, because talking to inanimate objects seems to be my brand now. “You win.”
I glance toward the empty windows, toward the porch rail wrapped in determined ivy, and I blow out a long breath. I’m already tired just thinking about all the work that needs to be done to restore this place to anything resembling livable condition.
I reach into my bag for the key. It slides into the lock with a decisive click.
My fingers curl around the doorknob, cold brass warming under my palm.
“Tomorrow,” I say, voice steadier now, making a promise to myself and the house and maybe the town beyond, “I find my shop.”
Then I push the door open and step across the threshold into my inheritance.
