The next morning, the house felt different.
It wasn't lighter—not exactly—but something had shifted. Like a breath had been released after being held too long. Sophie moved through the rooms with less hesitation now, letting her fingers linger on the walls, the furniture, the spaces her mother once filled.
She opened a window in the kitchen. The breeze carried the scent of spring—wet grass, lilacs, distant rain. For the first time in years, she made coffee not because she needed it, but because she wanted to stay.
She found herself talking aloud sometimes.
Just small things.
"I hated this tile," she said, staring at the cracked backsplash above the stove. "You always said we'd replace it. We never did."
Her voice echoed. The silence that followed wasn't harsh. It was patient.
She turned and caught her reflection in the microwave door—her mother's jawline, her father's eyes. All this time she'd run from this place, this version of herself, trying to become something else. But here she was, and she hadn't disappeared. She was still her.
The doorbell rang.
It was Jake, holding a box.
"Morning," he said, a little shyly. "Thought you might want this."
"What is it?"
He handed it over. "From the bookstore. You used to leave your stuff there sometimes. Mrs. Hanley never threw any of it away."
Sophie opened the box slowly.
Inside were notebooks. Old ones—her handwriting slanted and messy, lyrics scribbled in the margins. A few CD cases. A polaroid of her and Jake on the bookstore steps, probably taken the summer before she left.
She smiled, tracing the image with her thumb. "I can't believe she kept all this."
Jake grinned. "She always said you were going to be famous. She still plays your EP on Saturdays."
Sophie blinked back tears. "God. I forgot about that EP."
"It was good."
She looked up. "You think so?"
He nodded. "Still know half the lyrics by heart."
Sophie laughed softly, and for a moment, she felt seventeen again. Before distance, before grief. Just a girl with a guitar and a boy who believed in her.
---
They spent the afternoon on the porch. Sophie brought out her guitar—it hadn't been tuned in years, but her fingers still knew their way. She played softly at first, half-remembered chords and broken melodies.
Jake listened, not interrupting.
After a while, she sang.
The same song she'd written the week before she left—about small towns and summer dust and wanting more but not knowing how to ask for it.
When she finished, Jake cleared his throat. "That song still hurts."
She gave a small nod. "I think that's why I stopped writing. Everything I wrote started hurting too much."
"Maybe it's time to write something that heals."
She looked at him, the weight of his words settling deep. "Maybe."
---
Later, Sophie visited the cemetery.
She brought a single white lily—her mother's favorite. The ground was soft from recent rain, and the sky hung low, gray and quiet.
She knelt beside the headstone.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
The wind stirred her hair. She closed her eyes.
"I should've come back sooner. I should've answered more calls. I should've fought less."
She let the silence stretch.
"I found your letters. All of them. I wish you'd sent them. I wish I'd written back."
Sophie pressed her palm against the stone. It was cold, solid—too final.
"I'm going to try," she said. "To forgive both of us."
A bird chirped nearby. The wind picked up.
And Sophie stood, leaving the flower behind.
---
That night, she couldn't sleep.
She sat on the porch steps, wrapped in an old sweater, the stars barely visible through the clouds.
Jake joined her without a word, carrying a blanket. He draped it over her shoulders and sat beside her.
"You okay?" he asked.
She nodded. "Just thinking too much."
"About?"
"Everything. What I missed. What I still want."
Jake looked at her carefully. "And what do you want?"
She paused, her voice small. "To stay. At least for a while. To figure out if this version of me is enough."
Jake reached for her hand. "She always was."
They sat in silence, fingers intertwined, hearts a little lighter, the past still present but no longer in control.
Sophie leaned her head on his shoulder.
And for the first time in years, she didn't feel lost.
She felt found.