As the black sedan rolled to a stop in front of the house that once used to be mine, nostalgia hit hard. Nothing had really changed. The worn porch, the creaky front steps, and the old garden that still bloomed with wildflowers—it all felt eerily familiar, yet distant.
I stepped out slowly, my heels clicking against the pavement, memories flashing before me. This wasn’t the environment of wealth or extravagance, but it had been mine, filled with simpler, happier moments.
Mrs. Rodriguez turned to me, her tone calm and curious. “Is this where your father stays?” she asked softly.
I nodded quietly. “Yes,” I said, pointing towards the front door.
We moved towards the door, and as I reached it, I knocked gently, hoping he would recognize my presence. The wait stretched on for what felt like
