Elena didn't sleep that night.
The old house creaked and groaned around her, its bones unsettled by the storm that hadn't yet let up. She paced her grandmother's parlor like a caged animal, bare feet brushing against the faded floral rug that had been there for as long as she could remember. Every corner of the house whispered memories her abuela humming while mending clothes, the smell of arroz con pollo wafting from the kitchen, the sound of the sewing machine clattering late into the night.
But tonight, the house was too silent, the silence punctuated only by the relentless tick of the grandfather clock in the hall.
She tried to write an email to her board in Manhattan, something firm and professional about postponing her return, but the words blurred on the screen. She drafted and deleted the same message four times, each one weaker than the last. Her coffee cup never left her hand; by dawn, she'd drained the entire pot, her hands shaking from caffeine and exhaustion.
None of it mattered. She was still in the same place she'd been the night before caught between guilt and longing, fear and hope.
When the knock came at the door around midmorning, Elena nearly jumped out of her skin.
She opened it to find a woman about her own age with short auburn hair, bright blue eyes, and a casserole dish steaming in her hands. The woman smiled nervously, as though she wasn't sure she'd be welcomed.
"Hi," she said, shifting the dish slightly. "I'm Kate Morrison. Well, Kate Phillips now. I used to live in the house Marcus bought. I heard you were back in town, and I wanted to…" She trailed off, her eyes flickering down as though considering retreat. "Could we talk?"
Elena hesitated, then stepped aside. "Of course. Come in."
The warmth of the dish filled the air as Kate set it down on the kitchen counter. The casserole smelled of cheese and herbs, a comfort food offering. Elena managed a polite smile.
"That's kind of you," she said. "Thank you."
Kate's gaze lingered on the parlor, then drifted toward the hallway. She moved with the ease of someone who'd been here before.
"I used to visit your grandmother often," she said, her voice softening with memory. "Rosa was… well, she was everybody's grandmother in this town. She helped me with my wedding dress. And when my husband was sick, she was the one who showed up on my porch with soup and sewing projects to distract me."
Elena swallowed hard. The reminder of Rosa's generosity was like pressing on a bruise. "She never could stand to see someone hurting."
Kate sat down on the sofa, folding her hands neatly in her lap. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes were searching Elena's face.
"She talked about you a lot," Kate said. "Especially after you left. She didn't judge, but she worried. Not just for you, but for Marcus."
Elena tensed, her stomach knotting. "What about Marcus?"
Kate looked down for a moment before meeting her eyes again. "After you left, he went through a really dark time. Wouldn't talk to anyone. Barely ate. He threw himself into fixing up the Morrison house like his life depended on it. And maybe it did. We all hoped he'd move on eventually, but…"
"But he didn't," Elena finished for her, the words catching in her throat.
"Oh, he tried." Kate gave a small, almost apologetic laugh. "Sarah Martinez pursued him pretty relentlessly for a while. And there was a teacher from Albany nice woman, kind. He dated her for a few months. But it never stuck. None of it did. Rosa used to say he was still waiting for you."
The words pierced Elena deeper than any accusation could have. Guilt pooled in her chest until it felt impossible to breathe.
"Why are you telling me this?" she asked quietly.
Kate leaned forward, her expression soft but firm. "Because I can see it in your eyes. You're already planning to leave again. You've got that same restless look you had five years ago like your mind's already halfway packed. And I think that would be a mistake."
Elena looked away, blinking against the sting in her eyes. "You don't understand. It's complicated."
"Love always is." Kate's voice carried no judgment, only conviction. "Can I tell you something?"
Elena nodded.
"When my husband, David, died three years ago cancer it felt like my whole world ended. We'd been together since high school. I couldn't imagine a life without him. For months, I barely functioned. But Rosa…" Kate's voice wavered, and she smiled faintly. "Rosa kept showing up. She brought me food, yes, but more than that, she reminded me that grief wasn't the end of the story."
Elena's heart ached at the thought of her grandmother quietly ministering to the broken.
Kate took a deep breath. "She told me something I'll never forget. She said, 'Wasting the love you've been given doesn't honor the person who gave it to you. It dishonors it.' David would've wanted me to live again, to be happy again. And Marcus…" She paused. "Marcus deserves better than to spend the rest of his life waiting for a ghost."
The words struck Elena like a blow. She had been so focused on her own fear, her own shame, that she had never fully faced the cost of her absence for him, for the life they might have shared.
"I hurt him terribly," Elena whispered.
"Yes. You did." Kate didn't soften the truth. "But you're here now. The question is: what are you going to do about it?"
When Kate finally left, Elena wandered into her grandmother's sewing room. It smelled faintly of lavender and old fabric, the air heavy with nostalgia. Spools of thread lined the shelves, jars of buttons glittered like treasure, and unfinished projects were draped across the worktable.
Her gaze fell on the ivory silk wedding dress Rosa had been working on when she died. The bodice was half-finished, delicate beadwork catching the light. Elena ran her fingers over the stitches, marveling at the patience and precision in every seam.
Rosa had taught her to sew here, guiding her small hands on the machine. "Measure twice, cut once, mija. And remember, every mistake can be fixed if you're willing to take the time."
Elena closed her eyes, clutching the fabric. But some mistakes weren't so easily mended especially not when they involved breaking the heart of the only man she'd ever loved.
Her phone buzzed on the table beside her, dragging her back into the present. Another text from her assistant in Manhattan.
Board meeting moved up again. Reynolds case in freefall. We need you back ASAP.
The words made her chest tighten. The office, the boardroom, the life she'd built all of it suddenly felt like it belonged to someone else.
She set the phone down, staring at the unfinished wedding dress. Her grandmother's words echoed in her mind. Every mistake can be fixed if you're willing to take the time.
For the first time in years, Elena allowed herself to imagine what that might mean.
She straightened, her decision forming with startling clarity.
It was time to stop running.
She was going to see the Morrison place.