five years. five years and it looks exactly the same, small and sun-bleached and waiting. like she never left. like she was never gone.

the plane bumps down onto the tarmac with a squeal of tires and a shudder that runs through her bones. the cabin fills with the rustle of passengers gathering their things, the tinny ding of the seatbelt sign switching off. maddy stays in her seat until the aisle clears, fingers curled around the armrest, her heart doing something stupid and unfamiliar in her chest.

when she finally steps out onto the jet bridge, the air hits her—warm, wet, salt-tinged, so thick she could drown in it. it smells like sunscreen and cut grass and something green and alive. it smells like home.

she pulls her suitcase behind her through the tiny terminal, all peeling paint and ceiling fans and a single vending machine that's been buzzing for years. no one is waiting for her. she didn't tell them she was coming. she wanted it to be a surprise, but now the emptiness feels less like a choice and more like a verdict.