The house hadn't changed.
Not the structure, not the scent. Not the faint hum of the refrigerator that always ran just a little louder than it should. Not the worn oak floors or the rosemary candles her mother insisted on burning even in July. Everything looked the same—but that, somehow, made it worse.
Sera stood just inside the front door, her damp boots still on, bag slung over her shoulder, fingers tight on the strap. The house should have felt different. After everything. After what she'd become. After what she knew was coming. But no. The universe didn't bend around a single girl's changes. It just carried on, neat and polished and pretending everything was fine.
The smell of roast chicken drifted through the air, layered with butter and something starchy—potatoes, maybe. Plates clinked in the dining room. Her mother's voice floated in from the kitchen, bright and melodic.
"Sweetheart! You're just in time."
