The fog was heavier than I remembered. It clung to the cart wheels, to my cloak, to my throat. I pulled the fabric tighter around me, though it did little against the damp.
The first rooflines of the village broke through the gray like bones jutting from the earth. Smaller than I remembered. Crooked. Tired. Even the chapel tower, once so tall in my mind, leaned as if the years had worn it down too.
No one waited for me. The cart stopped in the square and the driver muttered something about the road, but I didn't listen. A few villagers passed by, carrying baskets, eyes fixed anywhere but me. They didn't stop, didn't greet me. Their glances slid away like water.
My boots hit the stones with a sound that echoed louder than it should have. I could still picture the child I had been, chasing friends across this same square. Now the air smelled of smoke and damp soil, with something faint underneath---sharp, metallic, almost like blood.
My mother's house hadn't changed. The faded blue shutters, the swollen frame of the door where spring rains always warped the wood. I rested my hand against it, the grain familiar under my palm, then pushed it open.
Inside smelled of flour and dust. The floorboards creaked, each one betraying my steps. My mother's arms wrapped around me briefly---strong, wordless, as if silence could fold the years between us flat.
That night, I lay awake in my childhood bed, staring at the ceiling beams I used to count when sleep wouldn't come. The fog pressed thick against the window, and every groan of the house felt heavier than it should.
Coming home should have brought comfort. Instead, I felt something else settling under my skin---not homesickness, not fear, but a weight that told me I hadn't come back to the same place I'd left.