The night air clung to Lucinda's skin like damp silk, but she barely noticed. Her mind was a storm, spinning too fast for her body to keep up. Her mother's voice still echoed in her ears—"It's about your father."
Her father.
The words had sliced through her like glass, reopening old wounds she'd sewn shut long ago with ambition, bitterness, and exhaustion. Now those stitches were breaking, thread by thread.
She turned slowly to the man seated in the drivers seat as concern carved across his brow.
"Can you please take me to the train station instead?" she asked.
"At this time of night?" he blinked, clearly startled. "You haven't slept. Your shift just ended."
"I'm aware," Lucinda replied, tapping her toes impatiently. "It's a family emergency. I need to go."
He leaned forward slightly. "Can't it wait till morning? You need rest. Your body won't function like this."
Lucinda swallowed, jaw tight. "No. I can manage."
He said nothing else—just nodded the car ride to the station was quieter still, the tension heavy like fog. She didn't know why it hurt that he seemed disappointed. He was a stranger. And yet… he cared. Or at least he acted like he did.
She boarded the 3:00 a.m. train to Atlanta, her breath fogging the glass window as the city lights faded behind her. The ride was uneventful—smooth, even—but her thoughts refused to settle. Her fingers hovered over her phone. She texted Elena about the sudden change of plans, then messaged her boss: Family emergency. I won't be in for a few days. I'll explain later.
It wasn't until the train rolled into her hometown that she realized—she never asked for the driver's name.
A cab took her the rest of the way. The houses looked smaller now, like cardboard cutouts of the memories she'd escaped. The sky had already begun to dim as the car pulled up in front of her mother's home. And then she saw it—parked in the driveway like it belonged there—a sleek, black, foreign sports car with tinted windows and shiny chrome rims.
Her chest tightened. His car. It had to be.
How could he afford this? The man who left them with nothing but tears and overdue bills. The man whose absence had shaped her entire life. The same man who had once promised to take her to the seaside, then vanished before morning.
She stood there for a moment, afraid to move. Afraid of the anger bubbling just beneath her skin. Afraid of what she might say when she finally saw him.
Her legs moved on autopilot as she approached the door. She rang the bell—once, then again. A shuffle of keys. A familiar metallic click.
The door swung open, and her mother stood there, her hair grayer than Lucinda remembered, her eyes glassy with unshed tears.
"Look at you, Lucy," her mother said, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand before pulling her daughter into a tight embrace.
Lucinda didn't even hesitate. She collapsed into her arms.
"Mother," she breathed, trying to keep her voice steady.
"Come inside, child." Her mother stepped back and opened the door wide.
The warmth of the house hit Lucinda instantly—memories of fried fish, loud laughter, and Christmas mornings. And then she saw him.
Lucas.
Seated in his wheelchair, grinning like a little boy on Christmas Eve.
"Lucinda!" he beamed, opening his arms. She dashed over and knelt beside him, embracing him tightly. He smelled like Vicks and old books.
And then—
"Lucinda."
The voice. Deeper than she remembered. Too familiar to mistake.
She didn't turn right away. Her entire body froze. Her lungs squeezed in her chest. Instead, she looked at her mother.
Standing beside her mother, like a puzzle piece that didn't belong, was the man who had haunted her dreams and nightmares alike.
Her father.
He looked older, the lines on his face deeper, his once-black hair silver at the temples. But his eyes—those dark, unreadable eyes—were the same.
She forced herself to look at him, but couldn't hold his gaze.
"Father," she said stiffly, the word sour on her tongue. Her voice cracked halfway through, but she didn't blink.
Silence filled the space between them. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.
Lucinda stood straight, her back against years of pain. Her mother's hand rested on her shoulder, grounding her, reminding her that she didn't come all this way to crumble.
Not now. Not again.