After a long, ear-numbing drive filled with half-broken radio music and Samuel's occasional humming, the car finally slowed to a stop. Ace glanced out the window just as the white iron gates came into view. They were old-fashioned, the paint chipped in places, but they swung open without a sound.
His grandparents' house stood quietly beyond them.
It was large—bigger than Ace remembered from his childhood. Three stories tall, painted a soft, aging green, with white borders that had clearly been repainted more than once over the years. A small, practical garden spread out in front, neat but not flashy, filled with sturdy potted plants and trimmed hedges that looked more dutifully maintained than lovingly tended. This wasn't a place meant to impress visitors. It was a place built to endure, to house generations, and it carried a kind of tired dignity.
Ace stepped out of the car, the quiet of the neighborhood immediately pressing in, a stark contrast to the road noise. The air here felt different. Cleaner. Slower. It smelled of damp earth and recently cut grass. Like the world had taken a deep breath and decided to hold it.
Before Samuel could even unbuckle his seatbelt, Ace spotted his mother.
Sophie stood near the front entrance, one hand resting on the doorframe, the other holding her phone loosely at her side. She looked tired, the kind of tired that went beyond a single sleepless night. But the moment she saw Ace, her face softened instantly—like a weight she hadn't even fully acknowledged finally lifted from her shoulders.
Ace didn't wait for Samuel's commentary. He shut the car door with a solid thump and walked straight toward her, the gravel of the driveway crunching under his shoes.
"So," he sighed when he reached her, dropping his duffel bag to the ground with a soft whump. "Here I am."
Sophie smiled, a small, warm thing that reached her eyes. "You made it."
"Barely," Ace muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets.
She ignored the familiar grumble and gestured with her chin toward a ground-floor window on the side of the house, just past the main entrance. "That room there. That'll be where you're staying."
Ace followed her gesture, giving a short nod. "Cool. That works."
There was a pause. Sophie's eyes did a quick, practiced scan of his face, looking for the signs she'd learned to read over the years: shadows under his eyes that spoke of more than just lost sleep, a tension in his jaw that hinted at pain he wouldn't name. "How are you holding up?" she asked, her voice careful.
"I'm fine," Ace replied automatically. The reflex was so fast it left no room for truth.
She didn't push. She'd learned that lesson long ago. Instead, she tilted her head toward the open front door. "Your grandma's awake. Do you want to see her?"
Ace hesitated—just for a second. A flicker of something unreadable passed behind his eyes. It had been years. "Yeah," he said finally. "It's been a while."
They stepped inside together, leaving Samuel to deal with his bags.
The house felt… fuller than Ace remembered. More lived-in. The hallway was lined with dark wooden furniture that had belonged to his great-grandparents. Old family photos in mismatched frames covered the walls, showing smiling people in outdated clothes. The air held a complex scent: the sharp, clean tang of antiseptic layered over the deep, homey smells of cooked vegetables and old wood polish. It was the smell of a family, and of a sickness being held at bay.
They stopped outside a door near the front of the house. Sophie knocked lightly—two soft taps—and pushed it open without waiting for a reply.
Inside, the room was washed in the gentle, greyish light of a shaded window. His grandmother, Rose, lay propped up on a mountain of pillows, thin blankets tucked neatly around her slight form. Age had carved deep, gentle lines into her face, a map of a long life. Her hands, resting lightly atop the covers, were slender, the veins a delicate blue tracery beneath paper-thin skin. She looked small—so much smaller than the formidable grandma of his childhood memories—but her eyes, when they turned toward the door, were sharp and clear and missed nothing.
Rose's eyes widened the moment she saw him. For a second, she just stared, as if he were a ghost or a miracle, afraid he might disappear if she blinked.
"Ace?" she asked softly, her voice a little raspy but strong. "Is that really you?"
Ace stepped closer, his footsteps quiet on the woven rug. "Yeah, grandma. It's me."
Her face lit up, transforming the weary lines into a network of joy. She pushed herself up with a bit of effort, a faint wince tightening her mouth before she settled back against the pillows. "Oh my goodness…" she whispered, almost to herself. "Come here, let me look at you."
Ace moved to the side of the bed. Rose reached out with trembling hands. Her palms were surprisingly warm as she cupped his face, her thumbs brushing his cheekbones. Her touch was feather-light but certain.
"My God, how long has it been?" she asked, her voice shaking—not with weakness, but with a surge of emotion she couldn't contain.
"Almost six years," Ace replied gently, letting her hold him there.
"Six years…" Rose chuckled softly, shaking her head in disbelief. "Time really does fly, doesn't it? It steals the years when you're not looking."
"Yeah," Ace offered a small, genuine smile. "Feels like it skipped a few in between."
She laughed at that, a real, warm laugh that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "I kept telling your mother to bring you with her whenever she visited," Rose said, finally letting her hands drop to clasp one of his. Her grip was firm. "Every time she came. 'Bring the boy,' I'd say. 'I want to see how tall he's getting.' But she never listened."
Ace raised an eyebrow, glancing at his mom, who hovered by the door with a soft, pained smile. "You serious?"
"Of course I am," Rose replied, her eyes sparkling with a bit of her old mischief. "If I'd known fainting out of nowhere was what it finally took to get you here, maybe I should've done it sooner."
Ace let out a surprised, genuine laugh. It felt strange in his chest. "Grandma, that's not something to joke about."
She grinned, weak but unwavering. "I'm serious, though. A little dramatic flair gets results."
There was a brief, comfortable silence. Rose looked at him again—really looked this time. Her eyes traced the lines of his face slowly, lingering on the set of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead, the quiet tiredness he couldn't quite hide behind his eyes.
"You've grown so much," she said, her voice full of wonder. "So handsome. You look like one of those boys on the covers of magazines, you know. All serious and mysterious."
Ace shook his head, a faint, awkward smile touching his lips. He wasn't used to this. "Now you're just teasing me."
"Oh, no," Rose said firmly, giving his hand a pat. "I wouldn't lie about that. Not at my age. Truth is one of the few luxuries left."
Ace laughed quietly, a soft huff of air. "Alright, alright. I'll take the compliment."
Her expression softened, the teasing light fading into something more tender, more observant. "You look tired, though."
Ace hesitated. The easy denial stuck in his throat. Her gaze was too knowing. "Yeah," he admitted, the single word feeling heavier than it should. "Guess I am."
She squeezed his hand gently. "You work too hard for someone so young. Your mother tells me you're very… responsible." She said the word carefully, as if it were a code for something else.
Ace didn't respond. He didn't know how to. How could he explain that his work wasn't homework or a part-time job, but a war in the shadows?
After a moment, he shifted the subject. "I'll be staying here for the weekend. Helping mom take care of you."
Rose's smile returned, calmer now, satisfied. "That makes me happier than you know. It's been too quiet in this old house. It needs some young noise."
"You're stable now, right?" Ace asked, his voice dropping to a lower, more serious register.
"For now," she replied, matching his tone. "The doctors say my heart is just old and stubborn, like the rest of me. It just needs rest. And less excitement." She eyed him playfully. "So no wild parties while you're here."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Ace said.
She slowly lay back down, the brief energy of their visit seeming to drain from her. Exhaustion settled over her features like a gentle veil. Before closing her eyes, she added softly, almost drowsily, "You've always been a good boy, Ace. Don't you forget that."
Ace swallowed around a sudden, unexpected tightness in his throat. "I won't."
They shared one last look—her eyes, old and knowing, holding his for a lingering second—before Sophie gently motioned for him to step outside. He gave his grandmother's hand one final squeeze and followed his mother into the hallway.
As the door clicked shut behind them, the room returned to its quiet, medicinal stillness.
***
Ace followed Sophie down the hallway, his footsteps echoing softly against the polished wooden floor. The house seemed to wrap around them, full of the whispers of past lives. She led him past several closed doors before stopping near the end of the hall, where the lighting grew dimmer.
"This way," Sophie said, her voice a little tight.
Instead of opening a door, she reached out and pulled aside a thick, dark blue curtain that hung from a rod mounted in the doorway.
Ace blinked.
Behind it was not a room, but a converted space. It might have been a large pantry or a sewing nook once. The walls were bare, painted a pale, forgotten cream. A single, thin mattress was pushed directly into the corner on the floor, no bedframe in sight. No cupboard, no desk, not even a chair. Just the mattress, a folded wool blanket on top, and a single pillow that was flat and looked like it had given up hope years ago.
Ace stood in the doorway for a moment, processing. This wasn't a guest room. This was storage.
"That's… where you'll be staying," Sophie said, her voice quieter now, threaded with an apology she couldn't quite voice.
Ace stepped inside. The floorboards creaked a lonely complaint under his weight. He looked up and saw the room didn't even have a proper light fixture—just a single, bare bulb hanging from the ceiling by a twist of old, fabric-coated wire. A pull-string dangled beside it.
"I'm sorry," Sophie added quickly, the words tumbling out. "This was the only space available. The proper guest rooms are… occupied."
Ace turned around, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. He looked at his mother, her face drawn with worry and guilt. "How is it your fault?"
Sophie hesitated, twisting her hands together. "You should've told me earlier that you wanted to come. You called out of nowhere, so I couldn't really arrange anything better. Everyone else is settled…"
Ace shrugged, the movement meant to look casual. "It's fine. I've slept on worse."
It was true. He'd slept on forest floors, in the back of Becca's truck, on safe-house couves that smelled of mildew and fear. A floor in a clean, quiet house wasn't a hardship. It was just… telling.
Sophie raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Really?"
"Yeah," Ace replied without thinking. And he meant it. But the fact that it was true—that his scale for "bad" was so drastically different from a normal kid's—hung in the air between them, unspoken.
Ace dropped his duffel bag beside the mattress. The sound it made—a soft thud of finality—felt heavier than it should have.
"Where are you staying?" he asked, looking around the cramped space again.
"With your grandma," Sophie replied, her posture straightening slightly. "She has an extra bed in her room. I don't want to leave her alone at night, in case she needs something."
"That's cool," Ace said. "Makes sense."
Silence followed.
Not the comfortable kind. It was the silence that fills the space where an argument is supposed to be.
Sophie looked down at the worn floorboards, then back at Ace. Her shoulders tensed slightly, bracing. "Say it."
Ace frowned. "Say what?"
"I know you want to," she said softly, her eyes meeting his. "I can see it all over your face. So just say it. Get it out."
Ace stared at her for a long second, his jaw tightening. He let out a slow, controlled breath, like a valve releasing pressure. Then—
"Why are you even here, Mom?" he snapped, the words coming out sharper than he intended. "You're not their puppet. This is stupid. Let's just go home already."
Sophie stiffened, a flash of hurt in her eyes before it was covered by a wall of resolve.
"They can take care of grandma themselves," Ace continued, his voice rising, fueled by a frustration that had nothing to do with the mattress on the floor. "They're all grown adults with their own lives right here. Why would they even drag you here? This whole thing is stupid and unfair!"
"I wasn't dragged here," Sophie said firmly, cutting through his outburst.
Ace froze. "What?"
"I came here willingly," she repeated, each word clear and deliberate. "No one forced me. No one dragged me."
Ace looked genuinely confused now, his anger stuttering. "Wait… I thought your brothers called you. That they just dumped it on you like they always do."
"First of all," Sophie said, her tone sharpening with a maternal authority that brooked no argument, "they are my brothers. And they are your uncles. They're older than you, so you will show some respect."
Ace clenched his fists at his sides but said nothing.
"And second," she continued, her voice softening a fraction but losing none of its steel, "my mother is sick, Ace. She fainted. She was scared. I was scared. Of course I want to be here. She's my mom."
The simple statement landed with the weight of a truth Ace had been willfully ignoring. He'd been so busy seeing his mother as a victim of her family's laziness, he hadn't let himself see her as a daughter, afraid for her own parent. He looked away, his gaze dropping to the sad little mattress.
"So," Sophie finished, her voice firm, "get yourself as comfortable as you can. Because I'm not leaving until I'm sure she's better."
The words weren't angry. They were a declaration. A line drawn.
Ace didn't argue this time. The fight drained out of him, leaving behind a hollow ache of shame. He just nodded, a short, jerky motion.
He sat down on the edge of the mattress. The worn fabric sighed under his weight, offering no comfort. The room seemed to shrink around him, the walls feeling closer, the ceiling lower.
"…Fine," he muttered, not looking at her.
Sophie lingered for a moment in the curtained doorway, her expression a complex mix of love, worry, and exhaustion. She opened her mouth as if to say something more, then seemed to think better of it. With a soft sigh, she gave a single nod and let the thick blue curtain fall shut behind her, closing him into the little makeshift room.
The fabric settled, blocking out most of the light from the hallway.
Ace sat in the semi-darkness for a minute, then slowly lay back on the thin mattress, staring up at the water-stained ceiling above the bare bulb. The house was full of people—his grandmother, his mother, his uncles and their families somewhere in the upper floors. The murmur of distant voices, the creak of floorboards, the low hum of a refrigerator… it was a house full of the sounds of family.
And yet, lying on a mattress on the floor in a closet-sized space, the weight of his secrets and his solitude pressing down on him, Ace had never felt more completely alone.