Sophie didn't know what made her do it—maybe the silence of the morning, maybe the ache of possibility—but she picked up her guitar and walked down to Main Street.
The town hadn't changed much.
The same brick buildings. The same mural of autumn trees on the side of the bakery. The same yellow newspaper box, somehow still standing, even though no one read print anymore.
She stopped in front of the bookstore.
Mrs. Hanley stood behind the counter, glasses perched low on her nose, reading something thick and old. When she looked up, her face broke into a smile that nearly knocked the breath out of Sophie.
"Well, I'll be."
"Hi," Sophie said, sheepish.
Mrs. Hanley rounded the counter and pulled her into a tight hug. "You look like your mama."
"I know."
"And you sound like you again."
Sophie swallowed the lump in her throat. "I was wondering… if I could play tonight?"
Mrs. Hanley didn't hesitate. "We still do open mic on Fridays. The same old regulars. You'll blow them all away."
Sophie looked down at her guitar case, fingers trembling. "I just need to try."
Mrs. Hanley nodded, understanding the way only old souls do. "Seven o'clock. I'll save you a seat."
---
Word spread fast.
By the time Sophie walked into the bookstore that evening, her hands were shaking. There were more people than she expected. Some she remembered. Some she didn't. But they all looked at her like she had never left.
Jake sat in the back row. When she met his eyes, he smiled and nodded—just once. Like a promise.
She sat quietly while others performed—spoken word, poetry, a man with a harmonica who played the same song every week. Then Mrs. Hanley called her name.
Sophie stepped onto the makeshift stage, knees weak, throat dry.
"I haven't done this in a long time," she said into the mic. A small chuckle ran through the room. Encouraging. Kind.
"This is something I wrote… before everything. And I'm hoping it still means something now."
She started to play.
The notes came slow at first, her voice a little unsteady, but then it settled—into rhythm, into meaning. Into the pieces of herself she thought she'd lost.
The lyrics told a story. About leaving. About silence. About aching to come home, and being afraid no one would be waiting.
By the final chord, the room was silent.
Then applause. Soft, then stronger.
Sophie stood there, stunned, as if unsure what had just happened.
Jake was already moving toward her.
When she stepped down, he wrapped his arms around her, whispering against her hair, "You were brilliant."
"I was terrified."
"You were honest."
Sophie smiled through tears. "That's even scarier."
---
They walked under streetlights afterward, the bookstore's windows still glowing behind them.
"That song," Jake said. "It hit me hard."
"Good," Sophie murmured. "It was meant to."
He stopped walking. "Sophie…"
She turned to face him.
"I don't want to just remember what we were. I want to find out what we still could be."
She hesitated.
Because old love isn't always safe.
Sometimes it burns too bright.
Sometimes it doesn't fit the way it used to.
But standing there, beneath a sky littered with stars and silence, she felt something shift.
"I'm not ready for everything," she said honestly.
"I'm not asking for everything," Jake replied. "Just… something."
Sophie nodded. "Then let's start there."
---
That night, back at the house, she pulled out a new notebook.
Blank pages.
Clean slates.
She began to write—not about running, not about leaving—but about staying.
And what it might mean to belong again.