I arrived home with nothing in my hands.
That was the first thing that felt strange.
No bag slung over my shoulder. No suitcase scraping the pavement behind me. Just my keys in my pocket, my phone, and the familiar weight of my belt resting against my waist, hiding everything else that mattered inside a space that did not exist.
The house looked the same.
Too clean and quiet. The porch light still flickered slightly before stabilizing, just like it always had. The wind chime by the door tapped once, then again, its sound thin and almost polite.
I stood there longer than I needed to.
This place had not changed.
I had.
The door unlocked easily. Inside, the air smelled faintly of detergent and something else I could not place. Maybe old wood. Maybe memory. I closed the door behind me and leaned my forehead against it for a second, just long enough to let the stillness settle.
I did not cry.
