The city greeted him with noise—honking cars, clattering tram rails, voices layered over each other in a rush that didn't pause for returning sons.
Noel slipped through it quietly.
Bag slung over one shoulder, jacket still half-zipped, laces slightly untied.
He hadn't said much since stepping off the train—just a nod to the driver, a tired thanks to the old woman who'd let him pass in the crowd.
The cab pulled into a narrow, familiar street lined with sleepy townhouses and sun-faded flower pots on windowsills.
Noel's house was the one with the red mailbox.
He stood outside for a second.
Just… looked at it.
The paint had chipped a little more since last time. A spiderweb crack ran across the corner of the windowpane.
But the red mailbox still stood proud — a stubborn kind of welcome.
The curtains in the living room fluttered, and before he could even reach for the handle, the door swung open with a loud creak.
