Willowbrook doesn't announce itself.
No grand sign. No dramatic skyline shift. Just a subtle slowing of the world, like everything collectively agrees to breathe softer here.
The bus pulls in with a tired sigh, and suddenly I'm standing at the edge of a town that knows me too well.
The main street looks the same. Almost suspiciously so.
The grocery store still has the crooked banner advertising discounts that probably expired years ago. The bakery's windows are fogged up, just like they used to be in the mornings, and if I let myself think about it long enough, I can almost smell warm bread drifting out. The hardware store has repainted its sign, badly. The letters still lean unevenly, like they are tired of standing straight.
Frozen.
And yet, not.
There's a new café where the old video rental shop once stood. The bench near the bus stop has been replaced. Shinier. Less comfortable. Someone wrapped fairy lights around the lamppost near the park, like Willowbrook tried to flirt with modernity and got shy halfway through.
I drag my bag along the pavement.
The sound feels too loud.
People nod as I pass. Some recognize me instantly. Others hesitate, studying my face like I'm a memory they are not sure they are allowed to claim.
"Back in town?" someone asks, casual and curious.
"For a bit," I say.
I don't know if that's true.
Dad's house comes into view slowly, like it's giving me time to prepare. The paint on the fence still peels in the same places. The mailbox still leans slightly to the left, stubbornly unfixed.
The door opens before I knock.
Dad stands there, a little thinner than I remember. A little more tired. His smile arrives half a second late, like it had to travel a longer distance to reach his face.
"Ash," he says.
Just my name.
He pulls me into a hug that's firm but careful, like he's afraid I might break if he squeezes too hard.
"You made it," he adds, quieter now.
"Yeah," I say into his shoulder. "I'm home."
There's no cheering. No dramatic reunion. No speeches about how long it's been.
Just relief.
Inside, the house smells like dust, old books, and the faint trace of soup. Dad's default answer to grief, exhaustion, or anything he doesn't know how to fix. The furniture hasn't moved. The clock in the living room still ticks a little too loudly.
"Long trip?" he asks, taking my bag.
"Not too bad."
"You hungry?"
"Always."
He nods, like this confirms something important.
We sit at the kitchen table. The same one Grandma used to scold us for leaning back on. He pours tea without asking and remembers exactly how I take it. That small familiarity loosens something tight in my chest.
"How's New York?" he asks, carefully.
I think of crowded platforms. Of noise that never stops. Of Alice's retreating figure. Of a life that felt full and hollow at the same time.
"It's loud," I say. "Good. But loud."
He hums, like that explains everything.
We don't talk about Josh yet. Or about how quiet the house feels without Grandma's voice floating in from the other room, asking if I've eaten enough.
Outside, Willowbrook continues being itself. Steady. Familiar. Quietly holding its breath.
As if the town knows I'm not just visiting this time.
The armchair creaks softly from the living room.
I follow the sound.
I hadn't expected her to look so small.
The door creaks when I push it open. She is sitting in the armchair by the window. Morning light catches her silver hair, making it glow. Her shawl is wrapped too tightly around her shoulders. Everything about her feels diminished, like life has been pressing her down gently, day by day.
Then her eyes find mine.
"Ash!" she gasps.
The single word carries more life than anything I've heard in months. She leans forward, her hands trembling as they cup my face.
"You've wasted away! Look at you. So thin!"
"I've just been busy," I mutter, embarrassed, swallowing the tightness in my chest.
"Busy?" she scoffs, wagging a finger. "Busy is when you do something useful, not when you run off to that big city pretending to be a grown-up."
"I…"
She cuts me off with a smile that softens the sharpness. "I don't care what you've been doing. You're here now. That's what matters."
Her hands linger on my arms, my shoulders, my hair. Like she's memorizing the weight of me. I don't pull away. Each touch anchors me. The city, the chaos, Alice leaving, all of it feels distant. Small.
"I'm glad you came," she says quietly, like saying it out loud might make it permanent.
"I'm glad too, Grandma."
She chuckles, dry and gentle. "You think I didn't notice you skipping home for that New York nonsense? Every Christmas I waited, you little brat."
"I know," I say. "I thought I was doing the right thing."
"The right thing," she repeats, frowning in that way that makes me feel ten years old again. "The right thing is showing up. You're here. That's enough."
Her eyes soften. "You can chase cities, people, dreams. I don't care. But if you don't come back once in a while, I'll know. And I'll worry. And I've worried enough for both of us."
My throat tightens.
"I'll stay this time," I say before I can stop myself.
Her hands grip my shoulders lightly, almost shaking. "You better. I don't have the patience for excuses anymore, Ash Bennett."
"I mean it."
She leans back, still holding my hands, like she could pour whatever strength she has left into me. "Seeing you today… it's helped more than you know."
I nod, unable to speak. I just rest my hands over hers and let the silence carry what I can't say.
After a moment, she squeezes my fingers once, then lets go.
Her hands feel lighter than they should as they slip from mine.
She settles back into the chair. The fabric creaks softly beneath her weight. The light in her eyes stays, stubborn and warm.
And in that quiet room, with the clock ticking somewhere behind me, I understand something I've been avoiding.
Home isn't broken.
But it is fragile.
Like a glass ornament that's survived too many winters, waiting for the wrong moment to finally fall.
I stay where I am, listening to her breathe, afraid that if I move too fast, something precious might shatter.
This time, I won't look away.
This time, I will stay.