I watched through the tinted glass as the silhouette of the place I once called home evaporated from my line of sight.
I couldn’t believe this was how I felt. It hurt, truly, to think that the house I grew up in would no longer be my home—just an empty shell of bad memories. But as the car glided smoothly over the asphalt, the heavy weight on my chest began to lift.
The driver, whose name I learned was Henri, remained silent. The interior of the limousine smelled of expensive leather and cedarwood. It was cool, quiet, and safe—a stark contrast to the screaming match I had just left behind.
We drove for nearly an hour. The scenery shifted from the cluttered suburbs of Mable City to the open highway, and finally, to a winding road flanked by dense, ancient forests.
The trees here were ma
