The kitchen smelled like home.
Warm. Familiar. Comforting in a way the city never managed to imitate.
Nothing fancy. Just boiled potatoes, slightly overcooked carrots, and that faint mix of herbs Grandma insisted were magical. She said they helped with digestion, luck, and stubborn hearts. Dad said they just tasted nice.
I washed my hands and leaned against the counter, watching Grandma struggle with her plate. Her hands shook as she tried to cut the food herself. More than I remembered.
I didn't wait.
"Here," I said gently, taking the knife from her. "Let me."
She narrowed her eyes, offended but tired. "I can still do it."
"You can," I said, already slicing the potatoes. "But then I'd have to sit here watching you struggle and feel terrible for not helping."
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. "You've grown bold, Ash Bennett. Bold and full of excuses."
"Excuses are my specialty."
Dad wandered in from the living room, wiping his hands on a dish towel. "You helping her eat?" he asked, eyebrow raised.
"Mandatory," I said. "I'm not letting her wrestle with a knife."
Dad smiled, a little weary, and poured himself some tea. "I approve. Not that she would care."
Grandma wagged a finger at both of us. "All the city schooling in the world and you still behave like children."
"Not children," I said, sitting beside her. "Seasoned veterans of bad decisions."
She laughed softly. Quiet, restrained. But it filled the kitchen in a way silence never could.
We ate slowly.
She told stories like she always did, drifting between memories without warning. Dad as a boy trying to build a treehouse that collapsed before sunset. Me insisting the neighbor's cat could talk if you listened carefully enough.
I laughed until my ribs ached.
For a while, I forgot the city. The deadlines. The unfinished goodbyes. The weight I carried everywhere else.
Dad joined in now and then, laughing at himself, adding details we both pretended not to remember. The three of us together felt uneven and imperfect, but whole.
Still, every time Grandma lifted her fork, my eyes followed her hands.
After dinner, we moved to the porch.
The air was cool, carrying the faint smell of woodsmoke from a nearby chimney. Grandma rocked slowly in her chair. I sat beside her, her hand resting in mine.
Her grip was lighter than it used to be.
"You've grown into a fine boy," she said, staring out at the quiet street. "Even if you do wander too far."
"I'm here now," I said.
She squeezed my hand gently. "You are. That's what matters."
The world beyond the porch felt distant. Muted. Like it had politely stepped back to give us space.
I glanced toward the doorway. Dad stood there with his tea, watching quietly. Like he did not want to interrupt, but did not want to miss this either. I gave him a small nod. He returned it with a tired smile.
Grandma's eyelids drooped.
Her hand loosened slightly, but she did not let go. Her breathing slowed. Soon she was murmuring half-sentences that made me smile despite the tightness in my chest.
I stayed where I was, letting the rocking chair sway us both.
For the first time in months, I felt safe.
No city. No deadlines. No New York. No Alice.
Just this.
Just the quiet rhythm of home.
It felt perfect.
And fragile.
I knew better than to trust perfect things.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
Later, I sat on the edge of the living room couch, phone in hand, scrolling without really seeing anything.
Josh's last message stared back at me.
"Got some work to finish. I'll come later. Don't wait up."
Later.
The word sat wrong.
I called him.
"Hey," I said when he picked up.
"Hey," he replied. Too casual.
"You okay?" I asked. "I mean, we planned to come together here and spend some time with Grandma. Then you told me at the last moment you got some work."
There was a pause. A faint rustle, like he had turned away from something.
"I've got stuff to wrap up," he said. "Important stuff."
"Important?" I asked lightly. "You never sound this mysterious."
He laughed. Too quickly. "People change."
That landed harder than he probably meant it to.
"You're acting strange," I said.
"I'm fine, Ash," he replied. "Really. Don't worry about me. You're with Grandma, right?"
"Yeah," I said. "She's good. She was happy to see me."
"I'm glad," he said, and for a second it sounded real. Then he rushed on. "Anyway, have a good time. I should get back to this."
"Josh," I said, softer now, "what are you not telling me?"
A breath. Long. Controlled.
"There's nothing you need to stress over," he said. "I promise."
I leaned back, staring at the dim kitchen light across the room. "You're hiding something."
He chuckled, but there was irritation under it. "Or maybe you just overanalyze everything. You can relax sometimes, you know."
Another pause.
"I'll come later," he said again. Firmer this time. "Relax."
"Okay," I said, even though I was still worried. "Just… don't disappear."
"I won't," he said. "I've got my reasons."
That's what I want to know. The things keeping him both busy and secretive these days. A girlfriend? A new project? Something else entirely?
But he won't tell me, of course.
The call ended.
The phone felt warm in my hand as I lowered it.
Josh had always been the one I understood. The one whose moods I could read without effort. I know it was very much the same for him too.
Now he felt distant. Like there was a version of him moving through a life I was not allowed to see.
And I don't know why it's bothering me so much.
I sat there longer than I meant to, listening to the house settle around me.
Somewhere down the hall, Grandma breathed softly in her sleep.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Josh would come. I told myself that.
Eventually.
Still, as I stared at the empty doorway, a familiar unease crept in.
Like a warning that something had already started to change.
And this time, I was not sure I would see it coming.