Marcus's truck was in the driveway when Elena walked up the stone path to what should have been their home.
She paused halfway, her heart pounding as if it were trying to tear its way free from her chest. The craftsman bungalow was even more beautiful than she'd imagined it back then painted a warm sage green with white trim, the wraparound porch adorned with hanging baskets overflowing with geraniums and trailing ivy. A porch swing swayed lazily in the breeze, its chains squeaking faintly, and wind chimes tinkled from a hook near the door.
It was the kind of house she had dreamed of as a little girl, the kind of place where families gathered for Sunday dinners and children played tag in the yard until dusk. It was also the house Marcus had once promised would be their forever home.
And she had walked away.
She was admiring the garden a lush sprawl of zinnias, lilies, and roses that spilled toward the sidewalk when the front door opened.
"I wondered if you'd come," Marcus said, stepping onto the porch.
He looked the way she remembered and yet entirely new. He was dressed in work clothes faded jeans and a T-shirt that had seen better days and there was sawdust dusting his dark hair. The smell of cut wood drifted faintly from him, earthy and grounding. His eyes, however, were sharper than ever, as though five years had honed them into something more guarded.
"I hope it's okay," Elena said quickly, her voice catching. "I probably should have called first."
"It's fine." His tone was clipped but not unkind. "I was just working on a project in the workshop out back." He gestured toward the house. "Did you want to see inside?"
Elena nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
Marcus stepped aside, and she crossed the threshold into what might have been her life.
The air inside was warm, scented faintly of cedar and lemon polish. Hardwood floors gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, their grain rich with character, and the original built-ins had been lovingly restored. The house felt alive, not sterile or staged, but worn in, as though every corner carried his fingerprint.
What made her chest tighten weren't the architectural details but the personal touches: photographs of his family on the mantel, books she remembered him reading stacked on a shelf, a guitar leaning against the fireplace. A plaid throw blanket she recognized from years ago was folded neatly across the arm of the couch.
Her throat ached with the sudden, fierce recognition of a life that had gone on without her.
"The kitchen's through here," Marcus said, his voice echoing faintly as he led her down the hall.
She followed into a space that made her gasp with delight. He'd opened up the wall between the kitchen and dining room, creating an airy, sunlit expanse. Copper pots gleamed from a rack above the island, and reclaimed wood shelves displayed neat rows of spices and mugs. The window he had once described with boyish excitement framed a view of the backyard garden, where rows of vegetables grew in tidy boxes beside trellises bursting with tomatoes.
"Marcus, it's incredible," she breathed. "You did all this yourself?"
"Most of it," he admitted with a small shrug. "Had some help with the electrical and plumbing, but yeah. It's been a five-year project." He paused by the window, looking out at the garden like it grounded him. "Your sewing room is upstairs. I mean, the room I thought… it's my office now."
The way he said it, careful and measured, made her stomach clench.
They climbed the stairs in silence, the floorboards creaking softly underfoot. Elena's pulse drummed louder with every step. She knew what waited at the top, and yet she wasn't prepared for it.
When Marcus opened the door, her breath caught.
It was an office, but barely. A plain desk with a laptop sat in one corner, a chair tucked neatly beneath it. But the rest of the space felt… unfinished. The shelves held only a scattering of books, the window seat was bare, and the walls were untouched by decoration. It wasn't a lived-in office. It was a placeholder.
Her knees weakened, and she gripped the doorframe for support. "Marcus…"
He didn't meet her eyes. "I couldn't bring myself to do much with it. Guess I kept waiting."
The weight of that simple admission pressed down on her like stone.
He turned abruptly, as though unwilling to linger. "There's something else I want to show you."
Downstairs again, he led her through the back door and into the yard. The garden stretched wider here, fragrant with basil and lavender. Beyond it stood the workshop a converted garage that smelled of sawdust and varnish, filled with the tools of his trade.
Elena's gaze drifted to the corner, where a cradle sat, sanded smooth and ready for staining. The wood gleamed under the light, every curve crafted with care.
"You still make furniture," she said softly, her fingertips brushing the rail.
"It's my business now," Marcus replied, reaching for a piece of sandpaper. His movements were practiced, almost ritualistic. "Custom pieces, mostly. I quit the construction company about three years ago." He sanded deliberately, his jaw tightening as if the motion helped him keep control. "This one's for Kate Phillips. She's expecting her first baby with her new husband."
Elena swallowed, remembering Kate's unexpected visit that morning. "She seems nice."
"She is. She's been a good friend." Marcus hesitated, then glanced at her, his eyes flicking quickly away again. "We never… I mean, there was never anything romantic between us. I don't want you to think"
"You don't owe me any explanations," Elena said quickly, though her voice trembled. "I gave up the right to know about your life when I left."
"Maybe." His sanding stopped. He set the block of wood aside and faced her fully. "But I want you to know anyway." His voice steadied, rich with quiet force. "There's been no one serious, Elena. A few dates, nothing more. I kept telling myself it was because I was too busy with the house, with the business. But the truth is…"
Her breath caught. "The truth is?"
"The truth is that no one else was you."
The words landed between them, raw and devastating. Elena's eyes filled, tears blurring the edges of the workshop until all she could see was him.
"Marcus, I"
"I'm not saying this to make you feel guilty," he cut in quickly, as though afraid she'd retreat. "I'm saying it because I spent five years lying to myself about why I was alone. I told myself I didn't need anyone, that love was just another way to get hurt. But seeing you again…" His voice cracked, and he forced himself on. "It's like waking up from a long sleep."
Her knees wobbled, and she gripped the cradle for balance, her tears slipping free. "I never forgot you either. I tried God, I tried so hard. I buried myself in work, in every distraction I could find. But you were always there, in every choice I made, every relationship I couldn't commit to, every dream that felt hollow without you in it."
His eyes searched hers, fierce and unrelenting. "Then why, Elena? If you felt the same, why didn't you come back?"
Her chest squeezed. She closed her eyes, the old fears rushing in like shadows: her mother's wasted dreams, the terror of becoming trapped, the gnawing voice that whispered love might never be enough. "Because I was afraid it wouldn't be enough. I was afraid that love wouldn't survive the resentment, the what-ifs, the roads not taken. I was afraid I'd become the woman who gave up her dreams for a man, even if that man was you."
Silence.
When she finally opened her eyes, he was staring at her, his gaze so intense it felt like standing in the sun too long.
"And now?" he asked, voice low.
Elena inhaled shakily. The cradle's smooth wood pressed beneath her palm, grounding her. She looked at him, truly looked at him, at the man who had built a house around a broken promise, who had kept faith with a future she had abandoned.
"Now," she whispered, "I'm afraid I gave up the only dream that ever really mattered."
The air between them thickened, heavy with longing and unspoken forgiveness. For the first time in five years, Elena felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be.