The Return

The night air was heavy with the scent of rain. Clouds pressed low over the city, their shadows stretching across the streets like silent watchers. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled—soft, almost mournful—as if the sky itself knew someone was coming home after far too long.

The car slowed as it turned down the long, familiar road leading to the ancestral estate. The gates were still the same—towering iron, cold and unyielding, their black surface glinting faintly under the glow of the lanterns that lined the driveway. Her fingers, resting on the leather seat, curled slightly. Eight years. Eight years since she had last crossed this road. Eight years since she had last breathed this air, since she had stood before the house that raised her.

She had left as a girl. Tonight, she returned as something else entirely.

Her driver glanced back at her through the mirror, as though expecting her to say something, but she remained silent. Her face, partially hidden by the shadow of her hood, revealed nothing. Only her eyes gave her away—sharp, cold, and strangely restless.

When the gates creaked open, the car rolled forward. The estate loomed ahead, larger than she remembered. Its windows glowed faintly with warm light, but it felt strangely hollow, as though time had drained it of the laughter it once held. Her chest tightened for a moment, but she quickly forced the emotion away. There was no room for weakness now.

The car came to a halt, and for a few heartbeats, she didn’t move. She just sat there, staring at the front doors, her hands pressed together. It was strange, she thought, how a place could feel both foreign and painfully familiar at the same time.

When she finally stepped out, the air was cool against her skin. The sound of her boots on the gravel echoed in the quiet night. Servants had gathered near the entrance, their faces reflecting a mixture of shock and disbelief. They bowed, but their eyes followed her every step as though they were seeing a ghost.

She walked past them without a word.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of sandalwood and rain-soaked earth. She paused for just a moment in the hallway, her eyes falling on the large portrait that hung above the stairs. It was her grandmother—stern and graceful as ever. The same woman whose death had shattered what was left of their family eight years ago.

Her throat tightened. She had promised herself she wouldn’t cry tonight.

The sound of hurried footsteps broke the silence. One of the elder maids appeared, her hands trembling as she pressed them together. “Young miss…” the maid whispered, her voice shaking.

She turned her head slightly, her expression unreadable. The maid’s eyes welled with tears. “We thought you would never come back.”

She didn’t answer. Words seemed too small for what she was feeling. Instead, she began walking again, her pace steady, her presence commanding enough to silence the hallway.

Every corner of the house carried memories—some warm, some sharp enough to cut. She passed the dining room where laughter used to echo. The courtyard where she and her brothers once played. The grand hall where they had stood, dressed in black, eight years ago, watching the world fall apart.

By the time she reached her old room, her hands were clenched into fists. She pushed open the door. The room was just as she had left it, as though frozen in time. Her books, her desk, even the little cracked vase by the window—everything waited for her.

She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. And for the first time since her return, her shoulders lowered slightly.

She was home.

But nothing would ever be the same again.

CONTINUE

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