Lia
Coming home has always stirred a cocktail of comfort and unease within me. Comfort, because everything there still carried the scent of my childhood: the dark wooden furniture, the familiar creak of the old gate, the whiff of lavender on the pillow that my mother insisted on leaving in my room. Unease... because he would be there.
Henry.
And maybe because of that, it was difficult to pinpoint when the feelings shifted.
Or, more accurately... when I stopped turning a blind eye to it.
I disembarked the bus, feeling the oppressive heat of early summer clinging to my skin. The street was deserted, as per usual. I hauled my suitcase along the cobblestone path leading up to the gate, pausing for a moment before pressing the doorbell.
He was the one who responded.
"Lia?" he said, his c
