The rain returned the moment Ava crossed the county line, like the sky had been holding its breath just for her. Fat drops splashed against her windshield, blurring the pine-lined road ahead and smearing the memories she'd worked so hard to forget.
She gripped the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles pale against the leather. On her right, the coast unfurled in jagged grey waves, angry and beautiful. She'd forgotten how the sea here could look both wild and lonely. Fitting.
The town came into view slowly, like a watercolour painting bleeding into shape. Weathered storefronts. Shuttered windows. A diner she remembered skipping school to visit. She hadn't been back in nearly six years, and yet everything felt exactly the same except her.
The GPS gave a final chime as she turned onto a narrow lane canopied by fir trees. The cottage sat at the end, tucked against a thicket of blackberry brambles, just as she remembered. Her grandmother's house.
Home. The word didn't feel right in her mouth, even unspoken.
She parked and stepped out, the rain soaking through her flannel within seconds. The garden was overgrown, a tangle of rosemary and roses that had long since given up any attempt at order. She brushed past them, fishing the key from her coat pocket, and pushed open the swollen front door.
The scent hit her first: cedar wood, old paper, and lavender. Her chest tightened. She didn't expect to cry she was too tired for that but there was a heaviness in her throat that didn't lift as she stepped inside.
The living room was just as she'd left it last Christmas, when she came to pack up her grandmother's things and never followed through. A half-filled box sat near the fireplace. A photo of her as a child missing teeth and covered in paint still sat crooked on the mantle.
She dropped her bags by the couch and wandered to the window. Rain streaked down the glass, and beyond it, the sea churned.
For a moment, she stood there, motionless. Then she turned and made her way down the hall to the back room the sunroom, though there was no sun today.
Her art supplies were still there, stacked in bins and boxes. Her easel leaned against the wall. Wrapped in a protective sheet, a canvas waited: the last piece she'd started before everything fell apart. She pulled back the cloth slowly.
The half-finished painting stared back at her two figures beneath a canopy of trees, their hands reaching but not touching. Her chest ached.
With trembling fingers, Ava slid the sheet back into place.
Not yet.
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