Bella pressed her forehead to the icy glass of the truck window as the trees slipped by, dark and dense beneath a drizzly gray sky.
Forks wasn't home—not yet—but her father's awkward smile had been quietly reassuring, and the nervous twist in her stomach almost felt like hope.
Everything seemed smaller here, pressed close together by rain and forest. The streets were lined with mossy roofs, worn signs, and the constant hush of water. Even the people she glimpsed—shy nods, curious stares from behind steamed windows—felt different. Forks watched its newcomers. She could feel it.
Charlie cleared his throat, glancing at her between turns. "The truck's already out front. I tuned it up myself."
"I saw. Thanks, Dad," Bella replied, offering a rare smile. She could hear the pride in his voice, wrapped tight in awkwardness.
They pulled into his driveway, a squat house trimmed in moss and memory. Bella's bag thumped softly against her thigh as she followed Charlie up the porch steps, shoes squelching in the wet. Inside, dust motes danced in the lamplight and the air smelled faintly of fried chicken—comfort food Mrs. Newton had dropped off, a classic Forks welcome.
"You remember your room?" Charlie asked, hovering in the hall, hands in his jacket pockets.
"Your room's just how you left it. Well, except for the… trophies." Charlie hesitated, then ducked his head like an apologetic giant. "I put 'em in the closet, didn't seem right 'cause you never liked them much."
"Yeah. Looks the same," Bella lied gently—because it felt smaller, emptied out of childhood, walls hung with old posters she barely recognized.
Charlie pointed awkwardly to a plate on the kitchen table. "Eat before it gets cold. You've got a long week ahead."
"Thanks, Dad." She tucked into dinner, the silence between them not quite uncomfortable—just unpracticed. Small talk about rain, school, and wiper blades filled the gaps. Charlie stumbled less over these details, and for once, Bella let them soothe her instead of shutting them out.
Upstairs, her suitcase exploded across the quilt. She watched the mist swirl beneath the streetlights through the window, unpacked slowly, and wondered how long it would be before Forks started to feel like something other than exile.
Later, she found Charlie in his recliner, feet up, eyes half on the news but mostly flickering to her whenever he thought she wasn't looking.
"Everything all right?" he asked, voice gruff, hopeful.
Bella nodded, settling onto the edge of the sofa, arms hugging a throw pillow for armor. "Yeah. It's... a lot quieter than Phoenix. But not bad."
He gave her a one-armed squeeze—small, awkward, but real.
They sat in companionable silence, the TV's glow painting soft shadows on the walls. Bella listened to the homey sounds of Forks: rain on the roof, distant passing car, the low murmur of Charlie's voice as he pointed out news anchors and weather fronts with easy comfort.
When the TV clock blinked 9:30, Bella rose. "I'm going to bed. First day tomorrow."
Charlie stood up awkwardly, then patted her shoulder. "Glad you're here, Bells. Really."
"Me too, Dad." And, for a moment, she felt like she meant it.
Upstairs, rain continued its quiet lullaby. Forks was still strange, still too small, still a little suffocating. But wrapped in Charlie's borrowed quilt, listening to the familiar hush that only old houses have, Bella allowed herself to imagine, just briefly, that maybe new beginnings weren't always as hard as she'd thought.
Maybe—just maybe—something good waited in the shadows of all this rain.