CHAPTER ONE: CHILDHOOD HOME

The town hadn’t changed.

The cracked sidewalks still weaved through rows of tired houses, sagging like old men under the weight of too many winters. The air smelled the same too—cut grass, the waste dump down the road and the faint sourness of something long forgotten. Familiar and foreign all at once.

She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, her knuckles whitening.

Just a few months, she reminded herself. Just until you get back on your feet.

In the backseat, her son stirred, his small voice cutting through the heavy silence.

"Are we there yet, Mama?"

Almost.

Almost somewhere she never wanted to be again.

She pulled into the driveway of her childhood home, the tires crunching over gravel like brittle bones. The house sat slumped behind a curtain of weeds and peeling paint, looking as beaten down as she felt.

Memories she had spent years burying clawed their way to the surface. She pushed them down with the force of someone used to running from shadows.

"Mama?"

Her son’s voice again, uncertain this time.

She forced a smile as she unbuckled her seatbelt. "We're here, baby."

As she helped him out of the car, she felt that prickling sensation along her spine.

The same one she used to get when she was a little girl hiding in closets, praying he wouldn't find her.

The past wasn’t just alive here.

It was watching.

Inside, the house smelled of mildew and old wood. Dust coated every surface, muting the memories into something less threatening. She could live with dust. It was the other things—the creaks in the floorboards, the way the shadows shifted at the corner of her eye—that unsettled her.

After putting her son down for a nap in the least depressing bedroom, she forced herself up into the attic.

Cobwebs clung to the rafters like angry spirits. She pulled down an old trunk, sneezing as the dust billowed. Inside: a faded quilt, a stack of newspapers, and at the very bottom, a small, dented metal box.

She pried it open.

Inside were photos—some yellowed with age, some newer. Most were innocent: birthday parties, fishing trips, holiday gatherings. But one photo made her breath catch.

It was a family portrait.

Her mother stood stiffly behind her, one hand resting on her shoulder, not in comfort, but in possession. Her mother’s smile was tight, hollow, and there was no warmth in her touch.

Beside them, her aunt stood closer, her arm wrapped protectively around her waist, pulling her slightly toward her. Her aunt’s smile was genuine, but strained, as if she were holding in something too heavy to say out loud.

Behind them, looming like a shadow, was her stepfather—grinning wide, that familiar, fake smile stretching across his face.

And next to them all, slightly apart—

Their faces and bodies had been violently scribbled out with thick, angry black markers. The lines were deep, as if someone had tried to erase them from existence.

But she knew who it was.

The sight of that blacked-out figure made her chest tighten until she could barely breathe.

No.

Her mind screamed to shove it down, lock it away, forget.

It was easier that way. Safer.

The box trembled in her hands.

She dropped the photo back inside and slammed the lid shut with a harsh clatter.

Downstairs, the front door creaked open.

Her body went rigid.

For a long moment, she stood there, heart hammering in her ears, listening.

But the house was silent—too silent.

Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling:

The past wasn’t dead.

It was waiting for her.

The house felt heavier with each passing day. The small, mundane tasks that used to bring comfort—dusting the shelves, mopping the floors—now felt like a slow torture, as if every corner of the house was holding onto something dark and unspoken.

That afternoon, while sorting through the drawers in the kitchen, she came across something she hadn’t expected: a small envelope, yellowed with age, wedged behind a pile of old receipts.

At first, she thought it was just junk. But then she saw the handwriting on the front—neat, elegant, a sharp contrast to the chaos of the house.

Her breath hitched. She knew that handwriting.

It was his.

Before everything had changed.

She slid her finger under the flap and pulled the letter out, her pulse quickening. The paper inside was thick and smooth, almost too delicate for her fingers. She unfolded it slowly, like it might bite her.

The words were simple, but they hit her like a punch to the gut.

Lissa,

You think I don’t see the way you look at me, the way you avoid me, but I see it all. You can’t run from this. Not forever. Meet me at the old barn tomorrow night. We need to talk. I need to see you.

T.

The letter was dated just a year before she left. Her hands trembled as she read it again, then again, until the words blurred together.

T.

The person who had been erased from her life. The person who she’d spent years pretending never existed.

Her heart raced. How could this be here? She thought she had got rid of everything. She thought the past was gone, buried beneath layers of time and distance.

But this letter… this letter proved she was wrong.

The fact that it was tucked away so carefully—hidden in this drawer, this room, this house—made it feel like the past was alive and breathing.

Suddenly, the house didn’t feel like a home. It felt like a prison.

She slammed the drawer shut; the letter still clutched tightly in her hand. A cold sweat broke out across her skin.

The old barn.

She knew exactly where it was.

Her mind screamed for her to forget it. To never go there. To walk away. But deep down, she knew she wouldn’t be able to.

Not now. Not after this.

“Mama” she heard the sweet voice of her son say.

With trembling hands, she shoved the letter in her pocket and picked up her son.

“How about some lunch?” she asked him.

“HOTDOG!” he yelled. His favorite.

Lissa hugged her son tightly and whispered “hotdog hotdiggity dog” as they both laughed.

After lunch Lissa cleaned up the kitchen and wiped her hands on her jeans. She felt it.

The Letter. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to go down this rabbit hole. “Just throw it away Lissa” the voice in her head said. “Just throw it away”.

Lissa held the letter in her hand. She quickly reached beside her, grabbed the lighter she used to light candles around the house and lit the letter on and tossed it in the sink.

“The past doesn’t live here anymore” she said out loud.