Then I heard voices. More than one. Familiar ones.

My pen froze mid-word. The ink bled into the page, a dark blooming stain I didn't bother to fix.

I slipped off my bed, feet finding the cold floorboards, and padded down the hallway. Each step tightened something in my chest—a lock I'd wound years ago, rusted shut from disuse.

The living room came into view slowly, like a scene revealing itself frame by frame. My mom stood near the doorway, smiling—that particular smile she wore when she was holding back a secret.

Grace.

Rey.

I hadn't seen them in seven years, yet they looked exactly the same. Warm eyes. Soft smiles. The kind of presence that used to feel like a second home. Grace's hair was shorter, maybe, and Rey's laugh lines ran a little deeper, but they were unmistakable.

It was the boy standing beside them.

He was taller now—tall enough that I had to tilt my head to meet his eyes. His hair was messier, his jaw sharper, his shoulders broader beneath a worn gray jacket. He looked like a stranger and a memory all at once, like a photograph I'd kept folded in my journal for years suddenly breathing.

But his eyes—those were the same. The same ones that used to watch me climb trees, steal his snacks, drag him into trouble. The same ones that promised he'd come back.

He stepped forward, hesitant but hopeful. His hand came up, nervous fingers running through his hair—a habit I remembered like it was yesterday.