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Those memories come from a version of life that felt simpler. Maggie and I moved through each other's days without effort back then. We didn't have to work at staying connected. We were just there, woven into the same routines, the same family, the same future.

Then Ben died.

The years that followed carried us in different directions. Calls became less frequent. Visits took more planning. We collected scars the other didn't always see, and somewhere along the way we learned that loving someone doesn't prevent you from disappointing them.

I watch the rain blur the world beyond the glass and realize I've been mourning the wrong thing.

I never lost Maggie.

I lost us.

By the time Redwood Run appears through the trees, the rain has stopped, and dusk has settled across the valley.

The town looks exactly the way it always does.

The river cuts through the center of town, reflecting scattered lights from the buildings along the waterfront. Fog curls between the evergreens, softening the edges of everything it touches. From a distance, Redwood Run still looks like the kind of place people write articles about when they're trying to convince city dwellers to abandon modern life and start collecting handmade soaps.

Beside me, Maggie wakes as the truck turns onto our road.

The change in her is immediate.

Her body stiffens against the seat. Her gaze moves from the trees to the neighboring houses and then back again, taking everything in as though she's seeing it through unfamiliar eyes.

Home.

The truck rolls toward a stop sign, tires crunching over damp gravel. "We're staying put," Briggs says.

Maggie blinks. "What?"

Briggs keeps his attention on the road. "You heard me. If you need space, take it. If you need company, you've got it. If you decide three in the morning is the perfect time for a panic spiral, congratulations. You've acquired a deeply unfortunate support system."

Ashby twists around in his seat. "He's right. We're like mold now. You're never getting rid of us."

"That's the sales pitch?" Torin asks without looking up from his sketchbook. "Emotional mold?"

"It's honest branding."

A small smile flickers across Maggie's face before she drops her gaze.

The tension leaves her shoulders little by little.

When we pull into the driveway, my chest tightens.

The house stands exactly where it's always stood.

Ben's house.

Mom and Dad's before that.

The place where birthdays happened. Christmas mornings. Fights. Losses. Every version of our family lives inside those walls somewhere.

The porch light burns against the deepening dark.

Maggie stares at it through the windshield.

I've pulled into this driveway dozens of times over the past few weeks.

Tonight it feels different.