Back to Belmont
POV: Third-Person Narrative Intro → First-Person (Silas)
Location: Silas' Family Home, Belmont, Detroit
Time: Early Afternoon
The Stone home sat quietly on the edge of Belmont's west side, tucked between a pastry shop and a rundown community bookstore that somehow never closed. The brickwork was faded but solid, and the front porch leaned just slightly from decades of summer barbecues and snow-heavy winters. It was the kind of house that wore its history openly warm, worn, and full of life.
Inside lived the Stone family, a household held together by tradition, stubborn pride, and an unspoken love that showed itself in sideways glances and packed lunchboxes.
Dr. Sylvester Stone, the father, was a tenured professor at Wayne State—a sharp-eyed, soft-spoken man with an old-school presence. He believed in discipline, books, and the weight of quiet observation. Few words, many expectations.
Mina Stone, the mother, was a pastry chef with quick hands and a sharper intuition. She ran her own corner bakery down the block. Warm but firm. The kind of woman who could hug you and guilt-trip you in the same breath.
David, the eldest son, worked at a downtown bank. Always clean-cut, tie never crooked, voice low and measured. Distant. Responsible. Didn't visit much.
Isaiah, the middle child, ran IT for a government building two cities over. Nosy, blunt, and too smart for his own good. The only one who still called Silas just to talk.
And then there was Silas. The youngest. The quiet one. The dreamer. The one who left for college and never really came back.
Until now.
First-Person: Silas
The front door creaked the same way it always had. High-pitched and complaining, like it resented being disturbed. I stepped inside and caught the scent of something sweet baking in the kitchen—cinnamon and vanilla.
"Silas?"
Mom was already coming around the corner, apron dusted with flour. Her eyes scanned me before her arms did.
I winced slightly as she hugged me. My ribs still ached.
"You didn't say what time your train got in."
"Didn't know for sure. Caught an earlier one."
She looked me over again, slower this time. Frown lines creased her forehead. "You look thin. And tired."
"Yeah, well... college," I muttered, trying to keep the sarcasm in check.
She narrowed her eyes. "Silas, na wetin do you?" (Silas, what happened to you?) "You nor dey eat?" (You're not eating?) "Look ya face. You don shrink." (Look at your face. You've gotten skinny.)
"I dey manage, Mama. I dey fine." (I'm managing, Mama. I'm fine.)
"Hm. You sabi lie but I sabi you pass youself." (You know how to lie, but I know you better than you know yourself.)
I gave a tired smile. Her Krio always came out when she was worried. It made everything feel... more real.
Dad appeared behind her a second later. Button-down tucked in, glasses halfway down his nose.
"You're early," he said. No hug, just a nod. That was how he showed concern. Through structure.
"Yeah."
"Your room's still there. No one touched it."
"Thanks."
They both watched me like I might collapse. I didn't blame them.
Later, Isaiah showed up.
Kicked my door open like he owned the place. "Yo! The prodigal's back."
"In the flesh," I groaned.
He dropped onto my desk chair, spun it once, then pointed at my duffel bag. "You look like you lost a fight."
"More like a few," I said, trying not to smile.
He squinted. "No jokes. You serious?"
I shrugged. "Not really. Just tired. Been a rough week."
"You wanna talk about it?"
I didn't answer.
He didn't press.
Isaiah leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. "Mom and Dad are worried. You know that, right? They didn't say it, but they are."
I nodded slowly. "I know."
"They don't know what happened with Micah?"
"Just the accident. Nothing else."
He blew out a breath. "Okay. Well... they'll let you have space. But if you start bleeding shadows or floating off the couch or something, I'm calling a priest."
I snorted. That one got a laugh out of me.
It was short-lived.
Because the bag sitting in the corner of the room... was still pulsing.
And I was starting to think coming home wouldn't be enough.