Chapter Three Familiar Strangers
783 Words
Ryden
The house was smaller than I remembered.
Or maybe I was just taller.
Either way, it looked... tired.
The lawn was mostly patchy grass and stubborn weeds. The paint on the front porch had started to peel, maybe from the sun, maybe from time. The curtains were drawn on every window like the house had something to hide.
I killed the engine and sat there a moment, the warm box of pastries on the passenger seat and a cooling coffee in my hand.
A part of me hoped no one was home.
Another part of me hoped he’d open the door and things would feel... I don’t know. Less weird.
But when I stepped out and walked up the path, my stomach knotted like it had something to say.
I rang the doorbell.
Waited.
Nothing.
I raised my hand to knock, but the door creaked open before I could.
He looked older. Not old, just... worn around the edges. Same jawline as mine. Same dark hair, just shot through with silver now. His expression was unreadable — not angry, not happy, just blank.
“Ryden,” he said, like he was trying it out for the first time.
I nodded. “Hey.”
He stepped back to let me in. No hug. No smile. Just an awkward shuffle like we were both guests in the same room.
The inside of the house smelled faintly like sawdust and detergent. Clean, but impersonal.
Furniture that looked like it belonged in a catalogue. Nothing on the walls except a clock ticking too loudly.
“You, uh... find the place, okay?” he asked.
“It’s not that big a town,” I said.
He gave a single nod, like that answered more than it did.
I held out the box. “Pastries. From the café downtown. Figured it’d be rude to show up empty-handed.”
His brows lifted slightly, almost like surprise, before he took the box. “Thanks.”
We stood in silence.
I could hear the fridge hum.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Even the clock felt uncomfortable.
After a beat, he cleared his throat. “I’ll help you grab your stuff,” he said, nodding toward the front door. “Spare rooms made up. Figured that’d be better than digging through whatever’s left in your old one.”
I followed him back out, the silence between us stretching like an overpacked suitcase.
I opened the door to the back seat, and he grabbed one of the heavier duffels without saying anything. I caught the other and shut the door with a soft clunk.
Inside, he led the way down a short hall, stopping at a door near the end. He pushed it open.
“Here,” he said. “Fresh sheets. The closet’s empty. You can put your stuff wherever.”
I dropped the bag at the foot of the bed, taking in the plain walls and unfamiliar furniture.
It could’ve been a guest room in any house.
Maybe that’s what I was.
A guest.
I heard him shift behind me.
“So…” I said, trying to break the quiet. “How’s... everything?”
“Fine,” he said. “Work keeps me busy.”
Right. Work. I didn’t even know what he did.
Some kind of construction or design, I think.
“You still building stuff?” I asked.
He blinked like I’d startled him. “Yeah. Got a few renovation projects going on.”
I nodded, then sipped my coffee to fill the space between us.
I didn’t want to be here.
And I don’t think he knew how to want me here either.
We had the same cheekbones. Same ears.
Different worlds.
“You can make yourself at home,” he said eventually, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “There’s food in the fridge. TV still works. I’ve got an early start tomorrow, but… we’ll talk. Catch up.”
“Sure,” I said, though neither of us sounded convinced.
He turned and disappeared down the hall.
The house was quiet again. Not peaceful quiet — just the kind that makes you want to leave.
I leaned back into the couch, staring up at the ceiling like it might have answers.
Twelve years gone.
And there is still nothing between us but the space we didn’t fill.
I didn’t know if I’d made the right call coming back.
But I owed it to Harps.
And maybe, deep down, I owed it to the kid I used to be. The one who once waited at the window for his dad to show up.
Maybe this time, I’d stay long enough to figure out why he never did.
- Writer
