Page 148 of The Threads Between

Come in. Like I had never stopped belonging here.

Warmth wrapped around me immediately. The scent of garlic and herbs drifting from the kitchen. The faint hum of music from another room. The lived-in quiet of a house that had never known sudden silence.

Home.

My father closed the door behind me with a soft click.

“Your mum's finishing dinner,” he said, already taking my coat from my shoulders in an absent, practiced motion. “Your sister's been pacing for the last hour. She was convinced you were going to cancel.”

“Traffic,” I said hoarsely, the first excuse that came to mind.

“Oxford traffic,” he muttered sympathetically. “Worst kind.”

He turned toward the hallway, then glanced back when I didn't follow.

“You coming?”

I had stopped just inside the doorway, staring at the walls.

Photographs covered them.

School portraits. Vacation snapshots. Candid moments caught mid-laugh. My sister missing front teeth. My parents younger, sunburned, carefree. Me in images I did not remember posing for, birthdays, graduations, holidays that had never existed in the life I had lived.

Proof of years that had been given back.

“Yeah,” I managed, forcing my feet to move. “I'm coming.”

He led the way toward the dining room, unaware that each step took me deeper into a miracle.

At the doorway, he paused and glanced back at me again, expression softening.

“Really is good to see you, kiddo,” he said quietly.

Kiddo.

My vision blurred.

“You too,” I whispered.

Inside, voices overlapped. Laughter. The clatter of dishes. The sound of a family that had never been broken.

My father stepped aside to let me enter first.

Alive. All of them.

“Lily! Finally.” Miya grabbed my arm. “Mum said you might cancel again and I told her absolutely not because you promised and you always keep promises even when you're being a hermit.”

Her voice was bright, warm, overflowing with a familiarity that assumed years of shared history.

My throat closed.

She smelled like apple shampoo and acrylic paint.

“I've missed you guys so much.” I tried to hold the tears back. They came anyway, hot and unstoppable.

“Aw, sweetie,” my mum murmured, pulling me into her arms. “I knew your dissertation was taking a lot out of you.”

Her embrace wrapped around me with effortless certainty, as if this was something she had done a thousand times and never stopped doing. Solid. Warm. Real. The fabric of her sweater was soft against my cheek, faintly damp at the cuff where she must have washed her hands too quickly. Vanilla lotion. Something floral. The ordinary, unmistakable scent of her.