🩵 Chapter 2 : One Phone Call, Two Worlds
774 Words
Dani
The drive home took four hours and a venti iced espresso I regretted somewhere around mile eighty-three.
By the time I reached the wooded outskirts of my hometown, the world had shifted. Literally.
No more towering student apartments. No honking city traffic. Just endless trees, thick air that smelled like pine and earth, and winding roads that remembered me like an old friend.
My phone buzzed as I passed the “Welcome to South Brookes” sign.
Mom.
I grinned and hit speaker.
“Hey, Mama.”
“Well, look who decided to call her mother instead of texting ‘omw’ like a heathen,” she teased.
I laughed. “I figured I owed you a real conversation before I show up and eat everything in the fridge.”
“You’re lucky your father went grocery shopping this morning. Jahlani tried to make pancakes and set the stove on fire again.”
“Again?”
“He says he was multitasking. Apparently, that means FaceTiming a girl and not flipping the damn pancakes.”
“Oh my God.”
“He’s sixteen and thinks he’s grown. You remember that stage.”
“I never almost burned the house down trying to flirt.”
“No, but you did sneak out to that lake party and come home smelling like tequila and heartbreak.”
I groaned. “We said we weren’t gonna bring that up ever again.”
Her laughter filled the car like sunshine. “Mhm. So, how was the semester?”
“Hard. Good. Tiring.” I paused. “Felt kind of weird toward the end, to be honest.”
“Weird how?”
I hesitated, watching the trees blur past.
“It’s hard to explain. Like… something was waiting. Or watching. I know that sounds nuts.”
“No,” she said slowly. “It doesn’t.”
I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just... we’ll talk when you get here, alright? You’ll feel better once you’re home.”
That did not sound like nothing.
But I let it go.
For now.
---
By the time I pulled into our driveway, twilight had already draped itself across the woods. Our old house looked exactly the same—wraparound porch, hanging fern baskets, and my dad’s ancient rocking chair still tilted a little to the left.
The front door opened before I even made it out of the car.
“Dani Bear!”
My brother launched himself down the steps and caught me in a full-body tackle before I could brace.
“Jahlani!” I laughed, staggering back with my arms around his neck. “You’re taller than me!”
“Duh.” He grinned, warm brown eyes gleaming. “I’ve been taller. You just keep denying it.”
“Don’t make me knock you back down.”
He snorted. “As if.”
My mom stepped onto the porch behind him, arms wide and apron dusted with flour. I ran into her next, breathing in the familiar mix of cinnamon, honey, and comfort.
“I missed you,” she murmured into my hair.
“I missed you too.”
My dad appeared last, lifting me into a bear hug that rivaled any I’d had on campus. “You look stronger,” he said. “And happier.”
I smiled. “I am. Mostly.”
He nodded but said nothing more.
Not yet.
---
Dinner was home-cooked everything: fried chicken, collard greens, sweet cornbread, and enough honey butter to drown in. Jahlani talked non-stop between bites, regaling me with stories of school drama, his fantasy football league, and a prank war with the neighbor’s twins.
But even through the laughter, I noticed it.
The glances my parents exchanged.
The way my mom’s hand lingered on my brother’s shoulder, like she was checking for something.
The way my dad’s jaw tensed whenever Jahlani talked about feeling tired lately.
Something was off.
But I wasn’t ready to press yet.
Not on my first night home.
---
Later that evening, I sat on the porch swing with a mug of cocoa while Jahlani strummed his guitar softly in the background. The trees swayed in the breeze, and fireflies blinked like tiny spirits weaving stories in the dark.
I closed my eyes.
And for the first time in weeks… I felt seen.
Not just by my family.
But by something deeper.
Older.
A whisper carried through the trees—just one word.
“Soon.”
My heart skipped.
My skin prickled.
But when I looked out over the yard, nothing moved.
No shadow. No spirit. Just the forest.
Still watching.
Still waiting.
- Writer
