Meant for love, bound by blood

Windows

The door clicked softly behind her.

Adeline stood on the porch, bag slung over her shoulder, the cool morning air brushing against her skin like a whisper. The Carmichael household still slept behind her, unaware or pretending to be. A thin mist lingered in the street, curling between the hedges and lampposts, softening the sharp lines of the world. She exhaled quietly, her breath trailing in the cold.

She didn’t take the car. She never did.

It waited in the driveway, sleek and obvious, like a reminder of the image she was supposed to project. But Adeline had no interest in performing. She turned from the house and walked the short distance to the main road, her boots tapping lightly against the pavement. Birds were beginning to stir, their songs muted in the early hour.

She pulled her coat tighter.

Each step away from the Carmichaels’ home loosened something in her chest, but it never quite broke free. That house, with its grand rooms and carefully measured voices, made her feel like a shadow slipping between walls—seen but not touched.

At the bus stop, she sat on the bench, folding her hands neatly in her lap. A few early commuters stood nearby, bundled in coats, eyes cast downward. No one acknowledged her. She was thankful for that.

The bus groaned to a stop and she boarded quickly, choosing a seat near the back, away from curious eyes. Her fingers found the cold windowpane as she leaned against it, forehead resting lightly on the glass. The vibrations of the engine rumbled through her spine.

The city moved outside in fragments—blurry storefronts, shuttered cafés, and the slow awakening of streets she didn’t belong to. The glass held her reflection faintly. She looked tired. Older, somehow. Her deep green eyes—so much like her mother’s—held things no one else seemed to see.

She blinked slowly.

Her body was calm, but her mind buzzed. Still replaying yesterday’s events. The accusation. The eyes that didn’t believe her. Amelia’s voice—light and shaky, so convincing. Andrew’s fury. Her parents’ confusion masked as comfort. And that damn line—“Maybe you should apologize.”

Adeline had wanted to scream. But instead, she left the room. Left the house. Left herself a little further behind.

She didn’t cry. Not visibly.

But inside, something had folded in on itself. Again.

Her fingers tapped idly on the glass, the rhythm of her thoughts syncing with the gentle thrum of the engine. She stared through the fogging pane, and her thoughts shifted—not to this city, or that house—but to a smaller, quieter place far away.

Her grandmother’s kitchen.

It always smelled like cardamom and warm vanilla. The countertops were worn smooth by decades of care, and the floorboards creaked lovingly beneath every step. She could still hear the soft clatter of teacups in the early morning, her aunt’s laughter filtering in from the garden as she tended to the herbs.

Adeline used to sketch at the kitchen table while her grandmother cooked. Her aunt would lean over her shoulder, humming, slipping slices of mango onto her page to distract her.

“Too serious, Addie,” her aunt would tease. “Even your drawings are holding their breath.”

And her grandmother, always gentle, would simply say, “That’s how she concentrates. Leave her be.”

It had been a home filled with love—quiet, steady, unconditional. The kind of love that didn’t need to be earned.

She remembered one night in particular. A thunderstorm had rattled the windows, and the lights had flickered out mid-dinner. They had lit candles all around the house. Her aunt played the piano in the dark while Adeline lay curled on the rug, her grandmother stroking her hair.

“You’ll leave us someday,” her grandmother whispered, not sadly, just with knowing. “But the parts of you we built? Those will stay.”

Adeline blinked away the memory as her chest tightened. Her eyes burned, but she refused to let them spill. She sat upright and pulled out her phone.

She hadn’t replied to Nikolai. His last message sat unread like a pebble in her shoe.

Instead, she opened her grandmother’s thread. It had only been a few days, but she felt like she’d drifted too far.

“I miss you. I’m okay. I just needed to say that.”

She sent the message before she could second-guess it.

Moments later, her screen lit up:

Grandma:

“We miss you more, my heart. Come home soon. But only when you’re ready.”

Her throat tightened, and she tucked the phone away, fingers brushing over her jacket as if holding onto the warmth of the words.

The bus began to slow.

Outside, the towering gates of Thorne University rose like marble sentinels, flanked by ivy-covered walls and meticulous gardens. Students bustled through the gates, coffees in hand, headphones in ears. Laughter and conversation floated in the crisp air.

She stepped off the bus into the tide of students.

Thorne had become her refuge. Not because it welcomed her—but because here, she earned her place. Her skill spoke louder than her name, and her silence wasn’t questioned.

As she walked across campus, a few familiar faces passed by. Some nodded politely. Others looked past her. She didn’t mind. Adeline Jacobs had learned how to take up space quietly.

She glanced up at the main hall, its columns gleaming in the early sun. Behind its doors were rooms where she lost herself in fabric and form, texture and color. Places where emotion turned into design. Pain into precision.

Her steps steadied.

She wasn’t home. Not here. Not there. But for now, this was enough.

And through the window of her heart, the memories of cardamom and candlelight waited, soft and unbroken.