The old neighborhood hadn't changed. Same cracked sidewalks. Same rusted mailboxes. But something in me had.
As I stood in front of the house I swore I'd never return to, my knees trembled. This place held everything I had tried to forget: the shouting, the silence, the night I packed a bag and left without looking back.
I didn't want to go inside.
But I had to.
The front door was locked, of course. I circled around back, heart hammering, and found the basement window still loose—just like I remembered. I slipped inside, breath shallow.
The air smelled of mildew and dust. Everything was exactly where it had been. The coat rack, the dented fridge, the ugly orange couch. It was like stepping into a memory. One that didn't want me back.
I went to my old room.
It was empty. No bed, no posters, no desk. Just bare walls and a faded outline where the bookshelf used to be. But tucked in the corner was a cardboard box. My box.
I opened it.
Inside were my journals. Drawings. Old story drafts. And one photo—me and my father, before things got bad. We were both smiling.
I sat down on the floor and stared at it.
And then the tears came.
Not because I was sad.
Because I finally allowed myself to remember.
The good. The bad. The real.
I didn't realize Lydia had followed me until I heard her voice from the doorway.
"You found it."
I wiped my eyes, stunned. "How did you know I'd be here?"
She stepped into the room, her gaze warm. "You can't grow until you return to the place you buried your roots."
I shook my head, laughing bitterly. "Why are you helping me?"
She knelt beside me and placed a hand on the photo.
"Because someone once did the same for me."
The silence between us stretched, but it wasn't heavy. It was full.
Then she said, "Are you ready to write your real story now?"
And for the first time, I nodded.
Because I knew the next chapter—whatever it held—was mine to write.