Sophie hadn't stepped inside her childhood home in years, not really. Sure, she'd visited once or twice, rushed holidays and clipped conversations. But walking through the front door now, with no one waiting in the kitchen, felt like stepping into a memory that didn't belong to her anymore.
The house smelled faintly of lavender and dust. Everything was still in its place—the framed photographs along the hallway, the bowl of keys near the door, her mother's glass figurines lined up in the living room cabinet. It was as though the house hadn't yet accepted that someone was missing.
She wandered from room to room, touching the edges of things gently. The kitchen was the same yellow it had always been, chipped tiles and sun-faded curtains. She sat at the breakfast table, remembering the mornings when her mother stood by the stove, brewing coffee too strong, humming tunelessly. They'd barely spoken those mornings. It had always been easier to fight in the afternoons.
In her old bedroom, time had frozen. The same floral bedspread. The same posters on the wall—bands she no longer listened to, dreams she no longer chased. A box sat on the bed, the only thing that didn't belong.
Her name was written across the top in her mother's familiar slanted script.
Sophie sat down slowly and opened it.
Inside were letters. Dozens of them. Unsent.
Some were dated from the first year Sophie left home, some more recent. All of them written but never mailed.
She picked one up and unfolded it.
Sophie,
I don't know if you'll read this. I don't even know if I'll ever send it. But I saw your interview on TV today. You looked tired. Proud, but tired. I hope you're eating enough. I wish you'd call.
Love,
Mom
The second one was messier, more desperate.
Sophie,
Your father had his first fall today. He says he's fine, but I'm scared. I don't know who else to tell. I don't want to guilt you, but sometimes I just want my daughter back. Not the version on a screen. Just you.
By the time Sophie reached the fifth letter, her hands were shaking. Tears slid down her cheeks, quiet and unrelenting. She hadn't known. Or maybe she had—she just hadn't wanted to face the truth of what distance had cost them.
She sat there for a long time, the letters like weight on her lap, pressing into all the corners of guilt she'd tried to ignore.
Eventually, she carried them downstairs and set them beside her suitcase. She didn't know what to do with them yet. But she couldn't leave them behind.
---
Later that evening, she stood on the porch as the sun dipped below the trees. The wind was soft, and for the first time, the stillness felt more like peace than absence.
Jake's truck pulled into the driveway just as the sky turned orange.
She smiled when he stepped out. "I didn't call."
He shrugged. "Didn't need to. Just figured you'd be here."
"I found letters," she said quietly, motioning to the house. "Ones she wrote but never sent."
Jake nodded, as though he wasn't surprised. "She always had too much pride to say what she really felt. You got that from her, you know."
Sophie gave a sad laugh. "Yeah. It's not my best trait."
They sat on the porch steps, watching as the last of the sun dipped away.
"Do you regret not coming back sooner?" Jake asked after a while.
She thought about it. "Every day. But I also know I left for a reason. I had to prove something to myself. I just didn't expect the cost."
Jake leaned back on his hands. "Sometimes I think about what might've happened if I'd chased after you. Got on a bus, showed up at your door."
Sophie looked at him. "And?"
"I probably would've made everything worse. You needed space. I needed to grow up."
They sat in silence, letting time fill the gaps between them.
"You know," he said after a moment, "you're allowed to forgive yourself."
"I'm not sure I know how."
"Well," he said softly, "maybe I can help."
Sophie turned to him. "Why are you being so kind to me?"
Jake gave her a long look. "Because I still love you. I think I always did. And because life's too short for grudges."
Her breath caught.
He stood and offered her a hand.
She took it.
Inside, the house waited—quiet, unfinished, still filled with echoes of the woman she'd loved and failed to understand.
But Sophie wasn't running anymore.
She wasn't sure what tomorrow would look like.
But tonight, she wasn't alone.