I’m home.
Mom made stew—turnip, leek, and wild fennel. I ate three bowls and still wanted more. Dad's workshop smells like pine tar and copper filings. The house is warm, familiar. But already the road calls.
I slept in my old cot beneath the loft window. The mattress is lumpy, the quilt too short, but I’ve never felt so safe. The Hollow hasn’t changed much. But I have.
There’s a quiet in me now. Not fear, exactly. Just awareness. Like something is waiting.
-E