Ashley's POV
The two-hour drive from campus had wrung her out completely. Her earbuds had died an hour ago, the charger was tangled like a mythic serpent, and the taxi smelled faintly of citrus despair. But when they turned onto the familiar, tree-lined street, something deep in her chest loosened.
Home.
The Brownstone Apartment waited exactly as it always had—an old soul of a building, ivy climbing up its weathered brick, windows glowing like patient eyes. It wasn't a stopover or a campus dorm or a borrowed space. It was the place. The only one in the world that had survived the chaos and still whispered: You're safe here.
Ashley paid the driver, hefted her bags, and climbed the worn steps two at a time. Before she could even fish out her keys, the heavy oak door swung open.
"She lives!" Daniel bellowed, her older brother's grin wide enough to power a small city. He caught her in a bear hug that lifted her clean off the ground.
"Put me down, you Neanderthal!" she laughed, flailing one arm. "You're gonna make me drop the groceries!"
"Garlic bread first, emotions second," he declared, rescuing the bag from her like a knight in sweatpants.
Behind him came the soft, steady rhythm of their mother's footsteps and the warm scent of cinnamon and butter.
"Ashley, sweetheart!" Her mom's voice was sunshine wrapped in worry. She pulled her into a hug that felt like being seven again—safe, small, and entirely known. "You look pale. Are you eating enough? Chloe says you've been living on tacos again."
"Mom, tacos are a food group," Ashley said, muffled into her shoulder. "And Chloe's a traitor."
Her mom laughed—the same musical, tired laugh that had carried their family through hell and back. "You sound just like your father."
And then there he was. Her dad, leaning in the kitchen doorway, quiet as always but steady in that way that made everyone else calmer by default. The deep lines that had once carved fear into his face had softened over the years, but they never truly disappeared. He didn't say anything at first—he just opened his arms.
"Hey, kiddo."
Ashley went to him. His hug was wordless and slow, anchoring her in the here and now. The faint smell of sawdust and aftershave clung to his shirt.
"Welcome home," he murmured into her hair.
Dinner was everything she'd been missing—loud, chaotic, imperfect, real. The garlic bread didn't survive the first five minutes. Her mom's pasta sauce simmered like alchemy. Her dad pretended to read while quietly keeping score in the ongoing "who drives worse" debate (spoiler: still Mom).
They teased, argued, laughed. Daniel tried to explain his new major using hand gestures that looked like interpretive dance. Ashley roasted him for being that guy who still texted his ex at 2 a.m. "for closure." Her mom fake-gasped, her dad choked on his water, and Daniel retaliated by stealing her last meatball.
The house was alive again—no ghosts, no shadows, just noise and light and warmth.
When the plates were cleared, her dad dusted off the old record player, setting the needle down with practiced care. The soft crackle of vinyl filled the air as her mom hummed along, washing dishes.
Ashley leaned against the doorway, just watching. The light hit the room in a way that made everything glow—her mother's tired eyes, her father's quiet smile, Daniel mock-spinning her mom in a goofy kitchen dance.
For a moment, Ashley wished time could stop right there. She wanted to live in that exact sound—the overlap of laughter and music, the hum of home.
This was the peace she'd fought for. The after. The recovery. The beautiful, fragile normal.
Her father caught her watching. "You good, Ash?"
"Yeah," she said softly. "Just missed this."
He nodded. "We missed you too."
Thunder rumbled far off, like an old god clearing his throat. Outside, the sky bruised purple, and rain began to tap gently at the windows.
Ashley yawned. "Alright, family, I'm clocking out. Existential traffic wore me down."
Her mom smiled knowingly. "Go. Your room's waiting—same mess, same magic."
Her dad hugged her once more, a little tighter this time. "Sleep well, kiddo. We're glad you're home."
Upstairs, her room was frozen in time. The fairy lights still framed the window. Her Polaroids—friends, sunsets, the four of them at Christmas—still covered the wall. Her old books leaned like tired soldiers on the shelf. Even her candle still smelled faintly of vanilla and lavender.
She changed into an oversized T-shirt and curled into the cushioned chair by the window. Rain slid down the glass in shimmering streaks. Outside, the storm raged, but inside was soft, golden, and safe.
She'd always loved storms. They made the world sound alive, like it was reminding her it existed beyond the walls.
She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in the scent of rain and home. Her chest felt full—of peace, of gratitude, of something fragile she didn't want to name.
When she opened her eyes again, she froze.
Something was on her nightstand.
An envelope.
It wasn't there before.
Heavy, cream-colored cardstock. No stamp. No address.
Not her mom's handwriting. Not her dad's.
Her pulse kicked hard.
The doors were locked. The alarm was set. No one should've been able to—
Her hand trembled as she reached for it. The paper was thick, expensive. The script—sharp and elegant—was eerily familiar.
Her blood ran cold.
She knew that handwriting.
Her heart began to pound, loud enough that it drowned out the storm outside.
The air felt suddenly thinner, tighter.
She tore the envelope open.
Inside, a single notecard.
Her eyes moved across the paper—once, twice.
Then the world went completely still.
Whatever warmth she'd built, whatever illusion of safety she'd wrapped herself in, shattered.
The storm outside roared louder, the windows rattling as lightning flashed—white, blinding, merciless.
Her hand slipped, the envelope falling to the floor.
For a moment, she couldn't breathe.
The only sound left was the rain and her heartbeat colliding.
And then, as if mocking her panic, the lights flickered once.
Then again.
Then went out.
Darkness swallowed the room.
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Author's Note:
Aaaand we're back, besties 🌩️Miss Sunbeam thought she was finally safe, huh? Cute. We all love a little family dinner and trauma-bond garlic bread before the universe slaps the plate outta your hand.
Anyway, I know what you're thinking: What was in the envelope?? 😏Well, patience is a virtue, babes—and in Ashley's world, virtues get people killed.
Stay hydrated. Hug your parents. Check your nightstand before bed. 💌
— Vaanni 🖤