I drove down winding roads and past a rural street with barely four buildings to claim as its own. The gas station was the only one for miles, its flickering neon sign fighting against the pale light of the early afternoon. Across the road, a diner stood like a relic of a bygone era, its chrome edges dulled and red booths visible through streaked windows.

  This was home—if a place could still claim that title after so many years away. The kind of town where everyone knew your name, your family, and the stories you wished they’d forget. It was where I grew up, learned to climb trees, scraped my knees, and eventually, learned to lose.

  The sun hung high but cold in the sky, casting long shadows across skeletal trees bordering the interstate. I passed the old church with its leaning steeple and weathered white paint. My grip on the wheel tightened. This was where I met Amelia. She’d been sitting in the back pew during a Christmas service, a stranger in a familiar place. I remember how she smiled, soft and hesitant, when I offered her my umbrella that night. That was the first time I ever walked someone home in the rain. The memory flickered like an ember, warming and painful all at once.

  Further down was the schoolyard, its chain-link fence clinging to life despite the rust. I could almost hear Daniel daring me to jump from the top, shouting, “Come on, James, don’t chicken out!” Becky had been too small to climb it then, her laugh carrying across the swings where Mom kept a watchful eye on her.

  The road narrowed, the pavement rougher beneath my tires as the town faded behind me. The last familiar landmarks came into view: the oak tree where Dad carved our initials, the field we turned into a makeshift baseball diamond one summer, and finally, the turnoff to the house.

  The old car rattled as it climbed the gravel driveway. The house stood resolute against the line of trees stretching to the horizon. Its wide front porch was decorated with modest pumpkins and hay bales—a sure sign of Mom’s handiwork. The windows glinted in the sunlight, and faint laughter carried from inside—the unmistakable sound of Jacob’s giggles mixed with Daniel’s booming voice.

  I parked under the old oak tree near the edge of the yard and let the engine hum into silence. For a moment, I just sat there, staring at the house. Coming back always felt strange, like stepping into a memory that had been waiting for me to return. I reached into the passenger seat for the bottle of wine I’d brought—Mom’s favorite—and the messenger bag stuffed with papers I wouldn’t have time to grade.

  The air was crisp as I stepped out, a faint breeze stirring the fallen leaves. I adjusted my scarf against the chill, though the sun shone steadily overhead. Gravel crunched under my boots as I walked toward the porch, the bottle tucked under one arm. The voices inside grew louder, blending into a warm, chaotic hum of life.

  “Time to play the part,” I muttered under my breath, pausing at the base of the porch steps. With one last glance at the yard and the forest beyond, I climbed the steps and stepped into the entryway, greeted by the sound of home.

  “Uncle James!” Jacob’s voice rang out before I saw him. His small frame came barreling toward me, dirty socks skidding over old, hardwood floors and dark curls bouncing with each step. He stopped short, his big brown eyes zeroing in on the bag slung over my shoulder.

  “Did you bring it?” he demanded, his tone serious for someone so small.

  “Bring what?” I asked, letting mock confusion creep into my voice as I set the wine bottle on the entry table.

  Jacob pointed emphatically at the messenger bag. “The book! The one with the monsters!”

  I sighed theatrically and crouched to his level, resting one hand on my knee. “Jacob, I’m a professor. My bag is full of very boring things—lecture notes, grading rubrics, maybe even a dictionary or two.”

  Jacob narrowed his eyes, his little nose scrunching up in exaggerated disbelief. “You’re hiding it,” he declared, crossing his arms like a pint-sized detective.

  “Hiding it?” I echoed, feigning shock. “Now, what kind of person do you think I am?”

  “A wizard,” he said with complete confidence. “You know all that stuff about monsters, and you’re always writing in your notebooks like you’re making spells.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s quite the theory. But what if I told you…” I reached into the bag, pulling out the dog-eared copy of Fantastic Creatures of Myth and Legend and holding it up with a flourish, “…I’m just a guy who knows a good book when he sees one?”

  Jacob’s eyes lit up as he snatched the book from my hands, his grin wide and triumphant. “Thanks, Uncle James!” he shouted over his shoulder as he darted off toward the couch, already flipping through the pages as his mother appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. Olivia had a calm, steady presence, her dark hair tied back in a braid that always seemed to stay perfect despite the chaos around her. As Daniel’s wife and a pediatrician, she managed to balance running after two kids with a full-time career—and somehow made it look easy.

  “You spoil him,” she said, one eyebrow raised but a faint smile on her lips.

  “It’s a book,” I replied, shrugging. “Spoiling would be a new game console.”

  “You know what I mean,” she said, leaning against the doorway. “But I’ll give you a pass since he’s been bouncing off the walls all morning.”

  Emily appeared next, her phone in hand, thumbs darting over the screen in a way only teenagers could manage. At fifteen, Emily had a lanky frame that hinted she wasn’t done growing yet. Her dark brown hair hung loose, a slight wave framing her face, where a few faint freckles still lingered from childhood. She carried herself with an air of practiced detachment, her sharp eyes glancing up just long enough to acknowledge me.

  “Hey, Uncle James,” she said, her voice casual but not unkind as she leaned against the banister.

  “Hey, Em,” I replied. “Keeping busy?”

  “Same old, same old,” she said with a shrug, still typing away.

  “Emily,” Olivia called over her shoulder, her tone sharpening. “Put the phone away before Grandma sees.”

  Emily sighed dramatically, shoving the phone into her hoodie pocket as she wandered toward the couch. She flopped down next to Jacob, who was already deeply engrossed in his book.

  “Good to see you too,” I muttered. Emily glanced at me from the corner of her eye, her lips twitching into a faint smirk before she leaned back into the cushions.

  The hum of voices carried from the dining room—familiar, warm, and just a little chaotic. I could already hear Daniel’s booming laugh and Mom’s quiet but firm responses cutting through the noise. The smell of freshly baked rolls and something buttery joined the medley of scents drifting through the house.

  I grabbed the bottle of wine from the side table and moved through the house. The hum of voices grew louder as I stepped into the dining room, where the table was half-set with mismatched plates and silverware, a testament to my mother's sense of practicality. Daniel stood by one of the chairs, a glass of what looked suspiciously like whiskey in his hand, while Mom busied herself at the far end of the table, rearranging a tray of rolls with her characteristic precision.

  “James!” Daniel’s voice boomed as soon as he spotted me. He set his drink down and crossed the room in a few quick strides.

  He clapped me on the shoulder, his grin as wide as ever. Daniel, always the life of the party, looked as polished as ever, with his light brown hair neatly combed and his shirt crisp enough to make me feel underdressed. “Took you long enough. Mom’s been pacing since ten this morning, and Becky was already taking bets on whether you’d bail.”

  “I wasn’t that late,” I said, setting the wine on the table.

  Daniel laughed, unbothered. “Tell that to her. She’s in the kitchen, pretending she’s helping, but actually making moon eyes at her boyfriend.”

  “I heard that,” Becky’s voice rang out from the doorway as she entered, holding a bowl of mashed potatoes. Rebecca, our youngest sibling, carried herself with the confident stride of someone used to handling things her way. Her dark ponytail swayed slightly as she walked, and her sharp eyes flicked between us as she smirked.

  “Good of you to show up, James,” she said, her voice laced with mock exasperation. “We were about to start without you.”

  “Nice to see you too, Becky,” I said, matching her smirk.

  She set the bowl on the table before crossing her arms. “Mom’s been worried you’d bail again.”

  “I don’t bail,” I said, keeping my tone even. “But thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  Becky stepped forward and gave me a quick hug, the kind that felt like an obligation wrapped in affection. “Seriously, though,” she said, her tone softening, “it’s good to have you here. Mom’s been worried about you.”

  “I’m fine,” I replied, though I doubted she believed me.

  Mom, standing at the far end of the table, finally turned her attention to us. Her gray-streaked hair was pulled back into a bun, and her sharp eyes missed nothing as she looked me over.

  “James,” she said warmly, setting down the tray of rolls and stepping closer. “You made it.”

  “Of course, Mom,” I said, stepping into her brief but firm hug.

  She pulled back and studied my face with the same critical eye she’d had since I was a kid. “You’ve lost weight,” she said, frowning slightly. “And you look pale. Are you eating enough?”

  “I’m fine, Mom,” I said with a small smile. “Brought your favorite.” I held up the wine, earning a look of approval.

  “Always thoughtful,” she said, her voice softening. “Now, go sit before your father complains about the turkey again.”

  Leaving the dining room briefly, I slipped into the kitchen, letting the hum of conversation fade behind me as I stepped into a quieter space. The room was warm, lit by the soft yellow glow of the overhead light and the steam rising from pots and pans. The air smelled rich and savory, a medley of roasted turkey, herbs, and something sweet baking in the oven.

  Dad sat at the small kitchen table, his usual spot when the dining room became too chaotic. He leaned back slightly in his chair, his posture straight but relaxed, hands folded in front of him. His gray hair was neatly combed, and his flannel shirt was faded but clean, a detail Mom had likely insisted on. He glanced up as I entered, his sharp blue eyes meeting mine.

  “James,” he said simply, his voice calm and steady as always. He stood briefly, clasping my shoulder in a firm grip that spoke volumes without needing words. “Good to have you home.”

  “Good to be here, Dad,” I said, taking the seat across from him.

  For a moment, the two of us sat in comfortable silence. Dad wasn’t one for small talk, and I wasn’t about to force it. His presence alone was grounding, a quiet strength that had been a constant through every phase of my life.

  “Turkey’s not dry this year,” he said after a beat, the faintest trace of humor in his tone.

  “Mom wouldn’t allow it,” I replied, smiling slightly.

  “I wouldn’t test her, either,” he said, settling back into his chair.

  The sound of footsteps drew my attention to the other side of the room. Luke Harper was seated near the counter, his chair turned slightly toward us. He stood as I noticed him, offering a polite but genuine smile.

  “James,” he said, stepping forward with a hand extended. “Good to finally meet you.”

  “Luke,” I said, shaking his hand. His grip was firm but not overbearing, and there was an ease about him that I immediately liked.

  Luke was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed simply in a button-up shirt and jeans. His deep brown skin and clean-shaven jaw gave him a sharp, polished look, but it was his quiet confidence that stood out most. He didn’t seem to feel the need to prove himself, which I respected.

  “Mom’s mentioned you,” I said, releasing his hand. “A lot, actually.”

  “Hopefully good things,” Luke said, his smile faintly amused as he returned to his seat.

  “They’re still debating whether you’re a keeper,” Dad said dryly, though the subtle warmth in his voice softened the words.

  Luke chuckled. “Good to know where I stand.”

  As I sat back down, I couldn’t help but notice how easy Luke seemed in this space. Twenty years ago, his presence at this table might’ve been unthinkable. Our hometown had its stories—whispers of quiet bigotry that never quite disappeared, even as the world changed around them.

  I thought of my students—some barely out of high school, others already grappling with the realities of a world that often felt unyielding. They came to my classes looking for answers, but more often than not, they left with better questions instead. The bright ones, the curious ones, reminded me that change was possible, even if it came slowly.

  But then there were the hollow efforts, the performative gestures that filled university brochures but failed to move the needle. Token diversity programs, committees with no teeth, policies designed more for headlines than real progress. I’d seen it all, and some days, it felt like shouting into the void.

  Luke, though—Luke wasn’t a token. His presence here felt real, earned. My parents’ easy acceptance of him, Becky’s confidence in their relationship, and even my own quiet admiration—it was a reminder that not every battle for progress had to be fought at the highest levels. Sometimes, change started at tables like this one.

  The sound of footsteps and voices from the dining room signaled the rest of the family filtering into the kitchen to gather before dinner. Becky’s voice carried above the others as she herded Daniel and the kids toward the kitchen.

  “You two better not have eaten half the rolls,” she said, shooting a pointed look toward Dad, who raised his hands in mock innocence.

  “We wouldn’t dream of it,” Dad said.

  Mom entered last, wiping her hands on her apron and glancing around the room. “All right,” she said, her voice carrying the practiced authority of someone used to managing chaos. “Everything’s ready. Let’s get everyone back to the dining room before it gets cold.”

  Luke stood first, offering a hand to Becky, who took it with a grin. Daniel wrangled Jacob away from the book long enough to line him up with the others, and Emily followed at a languid pace, still half-lost in her own world.

  As I stood to follow, I paused for a moment, taking in the scene—the hum of voices, the clatter of plates, the warmth of the kitchen. It wasn’t perfect, but it was home.

  Luke took the chair beside Rebecca, settling in with an ease that made him seem like he’d always been part of the family. I chose the seat across from him, curious to know more about the man who had won my sister’s sharp-eyed approval.

  Dad cleared his throat, the universal signal to settle down. “All right,” he said, his calm but steady tone cutting through the murmurs. “Let’s say grace.”

  The table quieted immediately, heads bowing out of instinct. Jacob peeked up at Emily, who elbowed him lightly before closing her own eyes. Dad’s voice carried across the room, low and deliberate.

  “Lord, we thank You for the blessings You’ve given us—for this food, for this home, and for this family gathered here today. We ask for Your guidance and strength as we face the year ahead, and for Your comfort to those who are missing someone they love.”

  The words hung in the air for a beat longer than usual. Dad’s prayers always walked a careful line, never naming names but always carrying the weight of unspoken losses.

  “Amen,” Dad finished, and the room echoed the word in unison. Heads lifted, and conversation resumed almost immediately.

  Luke leaned slightly toward Becky, whispering something that made her laugh softly. I took the chance to steer the conversation toward him.

  “So, Luke,” I said, leaning slightly forward as the table began passing dishes, “what got you into physical therapy? Seems like a job that requires a lot of patience.”

  He met my gaze, his smile calm and unforced. “I always liked helping people get back on their feet—literally and figuratively,” he said. “I played sports in college, saw a few teammates struggle with injuries, and figured it was a way to stay connected to that world.”

  “Sports, huh?” Daniel interjected, grinning as he gestured toward Luke with his fork. “Let me guess—football?”

  Luke chuckled, shaking his head. “Basketball, actually. Point guard.”

  “He's decent enough,” Becky said, smirking. “He still thinks he can beat me in one-on-one.”

  “Thinks?” Luke replied, arching a brow at her. “I let you win.”

  “You let me win?” Becky’s voice rose half an octave, her playful outrage cutting through the chatter.

  “I’m just saying,” Luke continued, his tone smooth, “it’s called relationship maintenance. You’re welcome.”

  The table laughed, the sound easing the small tension I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I leaned back slightly, watching the way Luke fit into the rhythm of the family so seamlessly. He seemed at ease here—more so than I would’ve expected for someone meeting my parents under Mom’s scrutinizing gaze.

  “So, do you have a specialty?” I asked, steering the conversation back.

  “Rehabilitation for athletes,” he said. “But I also work with older patients. They’re usually the ones who remind me why I got into this in the first place.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  Luke’s smile softened. “Because they never stop trying. Doesn’t matter how much pain they’re in or how long the process takes—they’ll keep showing up. That kind of resilience… it’s humbling.”

  His words landed with quiet sincerity, and for a moment, I could see why Becky had chosen him. He wasn’t just kind—he was intentional. It was rare to meet someone so grounded in their purpose, especially when the world didn’t always reward it.

  “So, James,” Daniel said, spearing a piece of turkey with his fork. “How are the philosophy kids these days? Still blowing their minds with Dostoevsky?”

  “Only the ones who stay awake past the syllabus,” I replied, though my tone lacked the usual humor. “You’d be surprised how many freshmen think The Brothers Karamazov is a YouTube channel.”

  Becky snorted into her drink. “They’re not entirely wrong. Some of them probably plagiarized their essays from YouTube anyway.”

  “That’s what Turnitin is for,” I said, though the thought didn’t bring much comfort. Turnitin sucked. “But yeah, the ones who show up ready to engage—they make it worth it.”

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  “Worth it?” Mom interjected, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve been looking awfully tired, James. Are you sure you’re not taking on too much?”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but Olivia chimed in first. “He’s always been like this, Ellen. Overthinking and overworking. It’s the Wallace way.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I said, deflecting with a faint smile.

  “It is if you don’t know when to stop,” Becky added, leveling her fork at me. “You don’t get bonus points for burning yourself out, you know.”

  “I’m fine,” I replied, the words coming out too quickly. I reached for my glass of water, taking a sip as the conversation shifted focus.

  Luke spoke up next, his voice calm but curious. “So, James, what drew you to Dostoevsky? Seems like heavy reading for someone who teaches freshmen.”

  I set the glass down, my fingers lingering on the stem for a moment. “I guess it’s the questions he asks,” I said. “About morality, suffering, redemption. He doesn’t try to answer them for you; he just forces you to confront them. There’s something… honest about that.”

  “Honest,” Luke repeated, nodding thoughtfully. “Not what most people think of when they hear ‘Russian literature.’”

  Daniel leaned back, smirking. “Sounds like your idea of fun, though. James loves his deep dives into suffering. Just look at—”

  “Daniel,” Olivia said sharply, her voice a quiet warning, but it was too late.

  “Amelia,” Daniel finished, his tone softening slightly as if the name itself might undo the damage.

  The room went quiet, the clatter of utensils and the low murmur of conversation fading into an awkward silence. Mom’s gaze flicked toward me, her expression tightening, and Dad shifted in his chair, looking down at his plate.

  I forced myself to meet Daniel’s eyes, my expression neutral, though the knot in my chest tightened with every passing second. “Excuse me,” I said, pushing back my chair and standing.

  “James,” Becky started, but I shook my head.

  “I just need a minute,” I said, my voice quieter now.

  I stepped out of the dining room, the warmth of the house suddenly too much. The hallway was cooler, quieter, and I leaned against the wall for a moment, exhaling slowly. My chest felt heavy, the ache from Dad’s prayer now a full-blown weight pressing down.

  Amelia. Her name still carried power, even years later. It wasn’t Daniel’s fault—it never was—but that didn’t make hearing it any easier. I closed my eyes, letting the quiet of the hallway settle over me, though it did little to ease the tension thrumming beneath my skin. Light footsteps approached, and I glanced up to see Becky. She leaned against the wall beside me, crossing her arms in a mirror of my stance.

  “Hey,” she said, her voice soft. “You okay?”

  I gave her a small nod, though I knew she wouldn’t buy it. “Yeah. Just needed a breather.”

  Becky let the silence sit for a moment, her gaze steady. “You know he didn’t mean anything by it,” she said finally. “Daniel’s got a mouth faster than his brain sometimes.”

  “I know,” I said, exhaling. “It’s not his fault. Amelia’s name just… has weight. It always does.”

  Becky tilted her head, her expression gentling. “That’s okay, you know. You don’t have to carry it by yourself.”

  “I’m not trying to,” I said, the corners of my mouth quirking upward in a faint smile. “But you know me. I’m bad at delegation.”

  She nudged my shoulder lightly, a gesture that felt as much encouragement as affection. “You’re bad at a lot of things, but we put up with you anyway.”

  I laughed, the tension easing slightly. “Thanks, Becky. Truly.”

  “Come on,” she said, her voice lightening as she nodded toward the dining room. “Mom’s probably about to send Jacob after you. Don’t make her resort to the nuclear option.”

  Shaking my head, I straightened up and followed her back in. The atmosphere at the table had lightened again by the time I returned, and I slipped back into my seat quietly. Luke was mid-story, his hands gesturing as he described a particularly memorable patient.

  “…and no matter how many times I explained it, he kept insisting he could push through,” Luke was saying. “Finally, I had to tell him, ‘Your ACL doesn’t care about your ego.’”

  Becky laughed, shaking her head. “Bet that went over well.”

  “Oh, he was furious,” Luke replied, grinning. “But he followed the program, and now he’s back to running half-marathons. So, I’ll call it a win.”

  “Sometimes tough love’s the only way,” Dad said, nodding. His steady, pragmatic tone carried a weight of its own.

  Across the table, Mom was keeping Jacob in check as he eyed the last roll on Becky’s plate, while Daniel and Olivia discussed a project he’d been working on at the office. Emily sat next to Jacob, her fork idly pushing at her mashed potatoes while her gaze drifted between her plate and the adults around her.

  I stayed mostly quiet, content to let the conversation flow around me. Listening felt easier than speaking tonight. The warmth of the room, the clinking of silverware, and the occasional bursts of laughter were enough to remind me why I’d come back.

  The house had quieted by the time the sun disappeared entirely, leaving the living room bathed in the soft glow of a single lamp. Jacob was fast asleep on the couch, wrapped in Mom’s favorite quilt, while Daniel and Olivia had retreated to the kitchen to finish cleaning up.

  I sat in the armchair, nursing a mug of coffee, when Emily wandered in. She carried her phone in one hand and a book tucked under her arm, her dark brown hair loose and a little disheveled from the long day. She hesitated for a moment before plopping down on the chair across from me.

  “Late-night reading?” I asked, nodding toward the book under her arm.

  “Sort of,” she said, shrugging. “It’s this fantasy thing. Magic, swords, dragons… you know, the usual.”

  I smirked. “You’ve got a type.”

  She rolled her eyes, though a small smile tugged at her lips. “Have you ever played Dungeons & Dragons?” she asked suddenly, catching me off guard.

  “Actually, yeah,” I said, setting my mug down. “I play pretty regularly with some of my colleagues from work.”

  “Seriously?” she asked, sitting up a little straighter. “Like, you actually roll dice and everything?”

  “Pretty much,” I said. “We meet every other Friday in my department’s break room. It’s a mix of professors, admin staff, and one particularly competitive janitor. We’ve been running a campaign for a couple of years now.”

  Emily blinked, looking genuinely surprised. “I didn’t think you’d be into something like that.”

  I chuckled. “You’d be surprised. It’s not just about the rules and dice—it’s about creating a story together. You build a world, make a character, and figure out who they are as you go. It’s… collaborative, I guess. Everyone brings something to the table.”

  She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Sounds kind of cool.”

  “It is,” I said, leaning back in the chair. “If you ever wanted to give it a shot, I’d be happy to show you how it works.”

  Emily hesitated, then shrugged with a faint smile. “Maybe. If you’re not too busy grading papers or whatever.”

  “Grading papers is overrated,” I said, grinning. “We could start by making a character for you. See what kind of hero you’d want to be.”

  Emily leaned back in her chair, pulling her legs up to sit cross-legged as she rested her chin on her hand. “So how does it even work? Like, you just roll dice and… what, hope you don’t die?”

  “Sort of,” I said with a chuckle, leaning forward in my chair. “The dice are part of it, but it’s more about the choices you make. It’s a game, sure, but it’s also a collaborative story. The Dungeon Master—think of them as the narrator or director—sets up the world and challenges. You, as the player, decide how your character reacts.”

  Emily’s brows furrowed, and she tilted her head. “But what if you make the wrong decision? Can you, like, lose?”

  “You can,” I said, nodding. “Your character can die, or the group can fail a mission. But the point isn’t to win or lose—it’s about how you deal with the obstacles. Sometimes the most interesting stories come from things going wrong.”

  She seemed to mull that over for a moment, then asked, “So, how do you even start? Like, how do you make a character?”

  I reached for the notebook sitting on the side table, flipping to a blank page. “It starts with an idea,” I said, clicking the pen. “Who is this person? Where do they come from? What do they want? The rules help guide you, but the most important part is who they are. The stats and numbers come after.”

  Emily looked intrigued, though her tone stayed casual. “Okay, so… what kind of options do I have? Can I be, like, a badass knight or something?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, smiling. “Or a rogue who sneaks around, a wizard who casts spells, or even a bard who sings their way through battles. The classes help shape what your character can do. Then you pick a race—like elf, dwarf, or human—and give them a backstory.”

  Emily leaned forward slightly, her earlier nonchalance slipping. “Okay, let’s go with a knight. But, like, not a boring one. Maybe… a knight who’s running from something.”

  I nodded, jotting down her idea. “A knight with a secret. Good start. What kind of personality do they have? Are they brave? Reckless? Haunted by their past?”

  “Haunted, definitely,” she said, grinning now. “But maybe they pretend to be fearless so no one knows. Like, they’re always cracking jokes to hide what’s really going on.”

  “That’s great,” I said, writing it down. “Now, what about their flaws? Are they too impulsive? Distrustful?”

  Emily paused, then shrugged. “Maybe they have a hard time trusting anyone. They’ve been betrayed too many times.”

  I nodded again, impressed. “Solid. Now we’d assign stats to reflect those traits—strength for physical power, charisma for how well they interact with others, and so on. The stats help shape how they’ll deal with challenges.”

  Before I could continue, the creak of a floorboard broke the quiet, and I glanced toward the doorway. Mom was there, her arms crossed, her sharp eyes taking in the notebook and pen in my hand. My chest tightened instinctively.

  “What are you two up to?” she asked, her voice calm but edged with that faint disapproval I knew all too well.

  “Just talking about games,” I said, keeping my tone casual.

  Mom’s gaze lingered on the notebook. “That game?”

  I fought the urge to sigh. “Yes, Mom. Dungeons & Dragons.”

  She frowned, her expression tightening. “You know how I feel about that. It’s—”

  “It’s not what you think,” I cut in, my voice measured but firm. “It’s storytelling, strategy, and creativity. It’s not dangerous or evil or whatever you heard back in the ’70s.”

  Mom’s frown deepened. “I just don’t see why you’d want to play something with that kind of history. You remember what Pastor Hale used to say about it.”

  “I remember,” I said, my voice quieter now. “And I also know he was wrong.”

  The tension in the room thickened for a moment before Emily broke the silence. “It sounds cool to me,” she said, her tone casual but defiant in its own way.

  Mom glanced at her, then back at me. “Just be careful what you’re introducing her to,” she said before turning and walking back toward the kitchen.

  I exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of my neck as I tried to shake off the tension. Emily watched her go, then turned to me.

  “What was that about?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

  “Old stories,” I said, forcing a faint smile. “Back in the ’70s, there was this whole panic—people thought the game was dangerous, that it led to all kinds of… well, ridiculous things. My mom bought into it. A lot of people did.”

  Emily raised an eyebrow. “Sounds dumb.”

  “It was,” I said. “But those ideas stick around longer than you’d think. It’s one of the reasons I didn’t tell her when I started playing in college.”

  Emily smirked faintly. “So you’re a rebel.”

  “Hardly,” I said, chuckling. “But let’s get back to your character. What’s their name?”

  She grinned now, leaning forward again. “Okay, let’s go with something dramatic…”

  Later, the cool night air wrapped around me as I stepped out onto the back porch, the quiet hum of the house fading behind. Stars dotted the sky above, their light faint against the dark canopy of trees that framed the yard. The sounds of the crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves filled the silence.

  Dad leaned against the porch railing, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp, scanning the darkened yard like he always did when standing still. Daniel stood beside him, nursing another glass of what I assumed was whiskey, his grin faint and lazy. Luke stood a little apart, his hands resting on the porch rail, his face thoughtful as he looked out into the distance.

  For a moment, no one spoke. It was one of those silences that wasn’t uncomfortable but felt deliberate, as if the moment itself needed time to breathe.

  “So,” Luke said, breaking the quiet, his voice steady but carrying a weight I hadn’t heard from him earlier. He turned slightly to face us, his gaze shifting between Dad, Daniel, and me. “I’ve already spoken to Mr. Wallace, but I wanted to talk to you two as well.”

  Daniel raised an eyebrow, lowering his glass. “Talk to us about what?”

  Luke straightened, his hands resting on the porch rail behind him as he took a deep breath. “About Becky. I’ve asked your dad for his blessing to marry her.”

  The words hung in the air, crisp and deliberate, like the cold night itself had paused to listen.

  “And he gave it,” Dad added quietly, his voice calm but carrying an edge of finality.

  Luke nodded, his focus now shifting to Daniel and me. “I wanted to ask both of you, too. I know how much family means to Becky, and I want her to know that I have your support—not just hers.”

  Daniel blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Well, I mean, yeah,” he said, his grin slipping into something more serious. “I think it’s great. You make her happy, and honestly, that’s all that matters. So yeah, you’ve got my blessing.” He raised his glass slightly before taking a sip, his easy demeanor slipping back into place.

  Luke smiled faintly at him, then turned his attention to me. His expression was open but not without a hint of nervousness, like he knew this moment mattered.

  I leaned against the railing, studying him for a moment. He held my gaze without flinching, his shoulders square and his posture steady. There was no arrogance in his stance, no assumption that my answer was a given. It was the quiet confidence of someone who understood the weight of what they were asking.

  “You really love her,” I said, my voice quieter than I intended.

  “I do,” Luke said simply. “And I’ll do whatever it takes to make her happy.”

  I nodded slowly, the words sinking in. He didn’t need to convince me; it was written all over him. The way he spoke about her, the way he’d fit into the family over the past few months—it was all genuine.

  “Then you have my blessing, too,” I said finally, offering him a small smile. “But if you screw this up, I’ll make sure it’s a very short engagement.”

  Luke laughed, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Fair enough.”

  Dad, who had been silent until now, cleared his throat. “She’s lucky to have you,” he said, his tone even but carrying an unexpected warmth. “And you’re lucky to have her. Don’t forget that.”

  “I won’t,” Luke said, nodding solemnly.

  The conversation quieted after that, the weight of Luke’s question settling into something lighter, more resolved. The stars above seemed a little brighter now, their faint glow reflected in the frost starting to creep across the grass.

  Daniel raised his glass again, grinning. “Well, here’s to you, man. Welcome to the family—officially.”

  Luke chuckled, shaking his head. “Thanks, Daniel. I’ll try to live up to the hype.”

  A few short hours later I found myself making my way up weathered stairs. The house was quiet now, the kind of stillness that only came late at night when the echoes of the day had faded into whispers. I carried my suitcase upstairs, each step creaking faintly under my weight, the sound familiar and grounding. The hallway felt smaller than I remembered, though it hadn’t changed a bit—the same faded wallpaper, the same scuff marks on the baseboards. My old bedroom door stood ajar, the faint scent of cedar and mothballs wafting out as I nudged it open.

  The room was just as I’d left it, frozen in time. The twin bed sat against the far wall, covered in the same navy quilt Mom had made when I was in high school. A desk, battered but sturdy, stood under the window, its surface cluttered with relics from another life—an old lamp, a stack of forgotten books, a baseball glove that hadn’t seen use in years. The sight stirred something in me, a quiet ache I didn’t fully understand.

  I set my suitcase down and began unpacking, the repetitive motion soothing. Shirts and slacks went into the small closet, toiletries onto the desk. As I zipped the suitcase closed, something caught my eye—a corner of paper sticking out from the edge of the desk drawer. Curious, I tugged it free, and the breath left my lungs.

  It was a photo, worn at the edges but intact. Amelia and I stood side by side, her arm looped through mine, both of us grinning at the camera. It was from our first Christmas together, the snow falling softly behind us, her cheeks flushed from the cold. She wore that ridiculous green scarf she loved, the one I always teased her about but secretly adored because it made her laugh.

  My fingers trembled slightly as I traced the outline of her face. The memories came unbidden, flooding my mind in a rush that I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to.

  It had been a Sunday morning in December, the kind where the air bit at your nose and the world felt sharper, clearer. I’d spotted her at the back of the church, sitting in a pew near the window, her breath fogging the glass as she leaned her chin on her hand. She wasn’t paying attention to the sermon, not really—her eyes kept wandering, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the hymn book.

  After the service, I’d seen her standing by the steps outside, holding an umbrella that seemed more decorative than functional as the snow began to fall. I’d walked up, fumbling for words, and offered to walk her home. She’d raised an eyebrow at me, her lips curving into the faintest smirk, but she’d said yes.

  That walk changed everything. Her name was Amelia Grant. She was finishing her master’s in art history, loved classical music but couldn’t stand opera, and thought sunsets were overrated but was obsessed with the way light hit stained glass windows. She was vibrant and sharp, with a wit that could cut but rarely did. And when she laughed—really laughed—it was impossible not to join her.

  We started dating not long after, and the months that followed were a whirlwind. Museums and coffee shops, long drives with no destination, lazy Sunday afternoons spent reading in the park. She made me feel alive in a way I hadn’t known I needed. She challenged me, pushed me, made me see the world in colors I hadn’t noticed before.

  When I proposed, it was at the same church where we’d met. I’d planned every detail, down to the way the light would filter through the windows, casting soft patterns on the floor. She’d said yes before I’d even finished the question, pulling me into a kiss that left me breathless.

  For a while, life felt like a dream—one I never wanted to wake up from.

  And then the accident happened.

  It was late, a rain-slicked highway, and we’d been arguing. Something trivial, something I can’t even remember now, though I’ve tried. A truck swerved into our lane, its headlights blinding. The sound of metal twisting, glass shattering, and then nothing.

  I woke up in the hospital with a concussion, a broken arm, and a pain in my chest that had nothing to do with my injuries. Amelia was gone. The world went gray after that, colors fading into dull shadows. Her absence was everywhere—in the quiet of my apartment, the empty passenger seat of my car, the stillness of a life suddenly too big for one person.

  I blinked, the photo still clutched in my hand. My chest felt tight, my breathing uneven. The ache was familiar, a hollow space that never seemed to close, no matter how much time passed.

  I set the photo on the desk carefully, as though it might shatter under too much pressure. The air in the room felt heavy, stifling, and I needed to move, to do something, anything.

  Slipping on my running shoes, I stepped outside into the crisp night air. The world was quiet, the stars sharp and cold against the dark sky. My breath puffed in the air as I started down the driveway, my feet finding a rhythm against the gravel. The tension in my chest began to loosen with each step, the motion soothing even as my legs burned.

  I ran down the winding road, past the church where I’d first met Amelia, its steeple silhouetted against the sky. The memories clung to me, but the steady cadence of my feet kept them at bay. The steady rhythm of my feet pounding against the ground was the only sound in the still night. The air bit at my skin, sharp and cold, but I welcomed the burn in my lungs, the ache in my legs. Anything to drown out the weight pressing down on my chest, the relentless replay of her name in my mind.

  Amelia.

  I turned off the road, onto the narrow dirt trail that cut through the forest. The trees loomed above me, their dark silhouettes twisting together like a tangled web. The moonlight barely pierced the canopy, but I didn’t slow down. I couldn’t. If I stopped, I’d have to face it—the hollow ache that had taken root inside me and refused to leave.

  The trail blurred underfoot as my breaths came faster, harsher, the sound raw in the quiet. My chest tightened, not from the run but from the memories I couldn’t escape. Her laugh, her smile, the way her hand felt in mine. They were all there, vivid and sharp, refusing to fade no matter how many miles I put between myself and the house.

  My steps faltered, and I came to a stop, leaning forward, hands on my knees as I gasped for air. The forest around me was silent, unnervingly so, as if it were holding its breath. I straightened slowly, my head tilting back to stare up at the dark sky above the treetops.

  “God,” I said aloud, the word tumbling out before I could stop it. My voice cracked, raw with emotion. “Are You even there?”

  The question hung in the cold air, unanswered.

  I laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and hollow. “I know You’re there,” I continued, louder this time. “I know. I’ve known my whole life. So why—why does it feel like You’ve forgotten me?”

  The words spilled out now, unbidden, a flood I couldn’t contain. “I loved her. You know I did. And she loved You. She believed in You more than anyone I’ve ever met. So why—why would You let her die? Why did You let me stay?”

  My hands clenched into fists at my sides as I stared up at the sky, the stars cold and distant. “Do You even care?” I shouted, the anger and pain rising to the surface. “Or am I just some cosmic afterthought?”

  Silence.

  The forest offered no answers, no solace. The weight in my chest grew heavier, pressing down until it felt like I might break under it. I closed my eyes, tilting my head forward as a single tear slipped down my cheek.

  “I don’t hate You,” I whispered, my voice barely audible now. “I just… I don’t understand. I’m so tired of trying to understand.”

  For a long moment, I stood there, my breaths coming unevenly as the silence stretched around me. When no response came, no sign, I let out a shuddering sigh and shook my head.

  “Fine,” I muttered. “I’ll figure it out myself.”

  I started running again, my steps uneven at first but gaining rhythm as I pushed deeper into the forest. The cold air burned in my lungs, but I didn’t care. I just needed to keep moving, to outrun the ache, the silence, the weight of unanswered prayers.

  Then, the mist came.

  At first, it was subtle—a faint, pale glow curling around the base of the trees. I barely noticed it, too focused on the trail ahead. But it grew thicker, spreading across the ground like a living thing, weaving through the roots and spilling onto the path. The air grew colder, heavier, and my chest tightened with an unfamiliar dread.

  I slowed, my steps faltering as the mist rose higher, wrapping around my legs like a phantom. The forest around me blurred, the trees twisting into unfamiliar shapes, their branches clawing at the sky. My breath came faster now, but it wasn’t from exertion—it was fear, raw and irrational, clawing its way up my spine.

  A faint whisper reached my ears, too soft to make out but persistent, insistent. I turned my head sharply, scanning the dark woods, but saw nothing. The mist seemed alive now, moving with purpose, coiling and shifting as if it were searching for something. For me.

  The whisper grew louder, layered and dissonant, a chorus of voices that didn’t belong. My heart raced, and I stumbled back a step, my eyes darting wildly as the mist pressed closer.

  “Who’s there?” I shouted, my voice breaking, but the only response was the whispering—closer now, almost tangible.

  The fear took over, and I ran. The path blurred beneath me as I sprinted blindly, the mist swallowing the trail and the trees closing in like prison bars. My breaths came in ragged gasps, my legs burning, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop.

  Something moved in the corner of my eye—a flicker of shadow in the mist. My head whipped toward it, but there was nothing there. Another shadow flickered to my left, then behind me, always just out of sight.

  The whispers swelled, a cacophony that drowned out the sound of my own footsteps, my own heartbeat. The air grew thicker, harder to breathe, and the shadows in the mist seemed to multiply, surrounding me, pressing closer.

  The tree came out of nowhere.

  I hit it full force, my shoulder slamming into the rough bark, pain exploding in sharp waves. My head followed, the impact sending stars bursting across my vision. I crumpled to the ground, the cold dirt and tangled roots pressing against my skin.

  The mist swirled around me, its whispers fading into an eerie silence. My body felt heavy, my limbs unresponsive as darkness crept in at the edges of my vision. The last thing I saw before the world went black was the mist curling upward, retreating into the shadows like it had never been there at all.