You remained seated, watching the familiar storefronts through the glass. The Mystic Grill's neon sign flickered—still the same shade of tired red. The clock tower stood proud and unchanging, just as it always had, even as everything else seemed to shift and settle around it.

A decade. It had been a decade since you'd last set foot here.

The bus driver cleared his throat, a pointed sound.

The door hissed open. Warm air rushed in, carrying the scent of honeysuckle and freshly cut grass. Home.

You stepped onto the cracked pavement, the heat radiating through the soles of your boots. The bus pulled away behind you, a fading rumble that left only silence in its wake.

A few locals glanced your way—the old woman sweeping her porch paused mid-broom, a teenager on a bike slowed to stare. You were new, and in a town like Mystic Falls, new was remarkable.

Then again, you weren't new. You were returning.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out, the screen lighting up with a string of messages from the same contact.

You slipped the phone back into your pocket and looked up. The Salvatore house stood at the end of the long, winding driveway, half-hidden behind ancient oaks and creeping ivy. It looked exactly as you remembered—grand, imposing, and full of ghosts.

Or perhaps just two of them, waiting inside.