Chapter 4
The headlights of a rented sedan swept across the living room windows, painting long, flickering bars of light over the ceiling before dying in the driveway. The gravel crunched loudly under tires, signaling the arrival that Elena and David had been dreading for the past hour. Through the front window, they could see Clara stepping out into the brisk autumn air, pulling a heavy wool coat tightly around her shoulders, while Mark wrestled two large suitcases from the trunk of the car.
Elena stood by the front door, smoothing down the front of her red dress one last time, forcing a bright, welcoming smile onto her face before turning the deadbolt. The door swung open, and instantly the cold night air rushed in, carrying the familiar scents of highway travel, damp leaves, and childhood memories.
"Mom! Dad!" Clara called out, dropping her purse onto the entryway bench and stepping forward to embrace David, who had hurried down the hall to greet them. Clara was thirty-eight, with the same sharp dark eyes as her mother, though her energy was perpetually scattered and hurried. "Oh, it is so good to be here. The flight from Denver was delayed by two hours, and the boys fell asleep halfway through the cab ride from the airport."
Mark followed closely behind, carrying a sleeping ten-year-old over his shoulder while their younger son stumbled sleepily behind him, rubbing his eyes. "Tell me the coffee pot is still hot," Mark groaned good-naturedly, shaking the autumn chill from his jacket. "It feels like we’ve been traveling across three different time zones."
Elena stepped forward, her smile warm and practiced, though her eyes darted nervously toward the hallway leading to the back bedrooms. "Welcome home, everyone. The house is warm, and we’ve got a pot brewing right now. Let’s get the boys upstairs into the guest room so they can sleep."
As the flurry of coats, bags, and sleepy children filled the foyer, Clara paused, looking around the brightly lit living room. The string lights that Elena had strung along the bookshelf glowed with a soft amber warmth, but something felt distinctly off. The house usually hummed with a very specific kind of energy whenever the family gathered—a rich mixture of baking spices, clinking pans, and Margaret’s voice directing operations from the kitchen. Tonight, the air was entirely too quiet.
"Where’s Mom?" Clara asked, stopping mid-stride as she unbuttoned her coat. She looked at David, then at Elena, noticing the slight stiffness in their postures. "Is she already asleep? It’s only ten."
May you like
David opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He looked at his sister, realizing how much she depended on the comforting illusion that her childhood home was an immutable sanctuary where time stood still.
Before David could formulate a reply, the hallway door clicked open. Margaret stepped out into the hallway, wearing her dark grey cardigan over her white shirt, her posture straight and uncompromising. She carried no luggage, but her brown leather handbag was slung neatly over her arm. The entire entryway went instantly still, the children’s murmurs fading as everyone turned to look at the matriarch.
