The houses here were grand, old things with sweeping driveways and manicured lawns. A black sedan was parked outside number 47, its engine still ticking as it cooled.

The front door of the house was ajar.

Inside, the sound of a child's laughter echoed through the foyer, bright and pure, mixing with the low hum of a vacuum cleaner running somewhere deeper in the house.

A woman's voice, soft and familiar, called out from the living room.

She was there. A little older. A little wearier around the eyes. But it was unmistakably you.

You looked up, and your breath caught.

Standing on the porch, silhouetted against the amber evening light, was a figure you hadn't seen in four years.