The cab rumbled slowly along the winding road, sunlight slipping through tall eucalyptus trees that bordered the sleepy little town. Amara leaned her head against the window, eyes taking in the familiar corners of home—slightly faded, slightly smaller than memory had painted them, but still here.
Five years. It didn't feel like it had been that long until now.
Her fingers curled around the handle of her bag as the car slowed in front of a white, weathered house. The porch still creaked at the corner. The rose bush near the window had grown wild, climbing higher than she remembered.
And on the porch, just like always, stood her mother.
There were no dramatic hugs or tears—just a quiet moment, a soft smile, and the kind of warmth that only lives in silence.
"I made stew," her mother said. "And there's fresh bread."
Amara smiled faintly. "I didn't realize how much I missed the smell of that kitchen."
That night, over steaming bowls and soft slices of bread, they talked. Slowly. Carefully. Her mother asked about the city—work, traffic, noise. Amara answered, but left most things vague. They didn't talk about why she came back. Not yet.
She slept in her old room that night. The sketches on the wall—her father's old blueprints—were still there, curling slightly at the edges. She ran a finger over the yellowed paper and whispered into the quiet, "I came back, Dad."
The Next Morning
She woke with a jolt—heart pounding, mind buzzing. For a second, she sat still, listening.
But there was nothing.
No sirens. No car horns. No early-morning footsteps from the apartment above. Just the soft hum of crickets outside and the distant coo of morning doves.
It took her a second longer to remember—right. She wasn't in the city anymore.
She lay back slowly, letting the silence stretch around her. It didn't feel bad. Just… still.
Downstairs, the smell of cinnamon and brewed tea led her to the kitchen.
"Sleep okay?" her mom asked without turning.
"Better than I expected," Amara replied, rubbing the back of her neck.
Before her mother could reply, a knock came at the door. Then a voice, already letting itself in.
"Tell me you didn't sneak back into town like a thief, Amara!"
Amara turned just in time to see a familiar whirlwind of curls and color rush into the house.
"Zuri!" she grinned.
Zuri didn't wait for a hug—she launched into one. "Your mom tells mine, mine tells the cat, the cat tells me. That's how I find out?"
"I was going to tell you," Amara laughed. "I just got in last night."
Zuri held her at arm's length. "Five years and that's all I get? Girl, you owe me a full day."
Amara raised a brow. "Like what, a tour?"
Zuri smirked. "Exactly that. For old time's sake."
Later That Day
They strolled through the heart of the town, sunlight warming their backs as they passed by old haunts. The bakery still sat on the corner, though the awning had faded. The fountain in the square had moss growing up the side. They waved at Mrs. Agwu selling fruits and ducked into the tiny corner shop that somehow still sold the same cheap candy from their childhood.
"You miss this place?" Zuri asked casually.
Amara shrugged. "Some parts, maybe. It's... slower. Quieter. Less sharp."
Zuri bumped her shoulder. "That's your way of saying yes."
They turned onto a quiet street lined with old shops and overgrown window boxes. A warm breeze drifted past them, carrying the faint scent of cedarwood and varnish.
Just up ahead stood a carpentry workshop with large open windows and shelves full of half-built furniture. The kind of place that hadn't changed much in decades.
Amara slowed down, gaze caught by the clean craftsmanship and soft hum of a saw from inside.
"Wait," she said. "This shop looks familiar…"
Zuri grinned. "It should. That's Carter's place."
Amara blinked. "As in Mr. Carter?"
"He retired two years ago," Zuri replied. "His son runs it now. Darian."
The name tugged something faint in her memory.
"He was quiet. Always into wood and tools and keeping to himself."
"And now he runs the entire workshop," Zuri said, nodding.
Just then, someone stepped out of the shop, balancing a long plank of oak across his shoulder. Broad frame. Work boots. Shirt clinging just slightly from the afternoon heat.
Their eyes met.
Darian's gaze didn't flicker. Just… held.
"Is that…?" Amara asked under her breath.
Beside him, his friend—lean, with wind-ruffled hair and a wry smirk—tilted his head. "That's Amara, right? The architect's daughter? She left for the city years ago."
Darian gave a quiet grunt, setting the plank down beside the door.
"Didn't think she'd come back."
Then he turned and went back inside without another glance.