[AN – Hey guys. It's been a while, sorry for the long absence; I've had some problems in my life and haven't felt like doing anything. I hope I can continue posting chapters little by little. Thanks for your support.]
After the graduation, the city seemed to give John up without resistance. The suitcase was packed quickly — only the essentials, nothing extra. They left early in the morning, before the streets filled with noise.
The car moved smoothly, the highway stretched ahead like a gray ribbon. Fields, gas stations, and rare motels passed by outside the windows. The sign Oklahoma flashed past and stayed behind them.
"Strange," Mia said, looking out the window. "I always thought going back home would be… hard. But right now it's just calm."
John kept his hands on the wheel and listened.
"Tulsa isn't very big," she continued. "Everything there is slower. Sometimes it's annoying. Sometimes it's the opposite."
She was silent for a moment, then smiled faintly.
"I didn't go into ballet because I was a calm child."
John slightly turned his head.
"In first grade there was a boy," Mia said. "With a bowl haircut. He always sat behind me and pulled my hair, pushed me, or tripped me when I walked past. Every day. The teacher kept saying, 'Mia, don't react.'"
She snorted softly.
"At some point, I stopped listening to adults."
"And what happened?" John asked.
"I hit him on the head with a library book. And then I stuck push pins into his face."
A pause.
"I got suspended. Mom cried. And the principal said I had control issues."
"Ballet helped," John said, more like a statement.
"Yes. Because it's all about control. About pain that is allowed. About limits you can't cross."
She exhaled.
"I became quieter. And I realized that if I didn't leave, I would suffocate."
The car kept going.
"I miss Hazel," Mia added after a pause. "A lot. She's an angel."
"Your sister?"
"Yes. Hazel LaPierre. She's fifteen. She's always been stronger than she looks."
"And your mom?" John asked.
"Her name is Evelyn. When I was a kid, I remember her braiding my hair and sending me to school with a kiss. But after my father died, she closed herself off and was never the same again. Alcohol, drugs, and new boyfriends who, as she said, were supposed to take care of her and of me and Hazel."
"She has a man," Mia added. "Tom Walker. He… lives with her."
"Do you know him well?" John asked.
Mia shrugged.
"Enough to know he's not someone you can fully trust." She said it calmly, almost indifferently.
John said nothing.
"The main thing is that Hazel isn't alone," Mia added, as if convincing herself. "I left, but she stayed with Mom."
She turned to John.
"I want you to know where we're going. Not just on the map."
"I understand," he replied.
The first signs for Tulsa appeared ahead.
Home was already close. And there was something about this return that felt wrong — even though Mia didn't feel it yet.
…
The city met them without greeting.
Tulsa looked tired. Not abandoned — just tired. Shops with faded signs, houses that hadn't been painted in years, streets where cars moved slowly, as if there was nowhere to hurry and no one to hurry to.
Mia went silent as soon as they left the highway. She looked ahead, but her gaze was unfocused, as if the city didn't match the memory she had kept.
The house stood at the end of the street. There used to be neatly trimmed bushes. Now one of them was ripped out by the roots and lying on its side. The porch had sunk. A first-floor window was taped over in an X with duct tape.
John turned off the engine.
Mia got out of the car and just stared at the house.
"This…" she began and didn't finish. After a short pause, she walked toward the house where she grew up.
The door wasn't locked. It opened with a hoarse creak, as if the house was protesting being forced to work again.
The smell hit immediately. Sweet, rotten, heavy. A mix of alcohol, sweat, cheap drugs, and stale smoke.
The floor was covered with trash. Empty bottles. Pills in torn blister packs. Small bags. A used condom near the couch, as if no one even tried to hide it. On the wall — marks that looked like impact marks, as if something had been thrown.
Mia took a step forward. Then another.
"Mom?.." Her voice sounded dull.
In the living room, half-lying on an old couch, was Evelyn. Her eyes were closed, mouth slightly open. One arm hung down, almost touching the floor. On the table nearby — a bottle and an empty package from some kind of pharmacy medicine.
Mia stepped closer.
"Mom," she said louder. "It's me."
Evelyn didn't react.
Mia dropped to her knees beside her and carefully touched her shoulder.
"Mom, wake up."
Nothing.
"Mom!"
She shook her harder. Evelyn's head jerked, her lips mumbled something. Her eyes slowly opened, but her gaze was cloudy, wandering, like someone who didn't understand right away where they were or who was in front of them.
It took time for her focus to return.
Then her eyes stopped.
On Mia.
"You…" Evelyn murmured. "You came back."
Mia let out a breath of relief.
"Yes. It's okay, I'm here."
Her mother's face suddenly changed. Not sharply — like a mask slowly sliding off.
"This is all your fault," Evelyn said.
Clearly. Without hysteria. Without shouting.
Mia froze.
"What?.. Mom, what are you talking about?"
Evelyn closed her eyes. Her head fell back onto the pillow.
"Hazel!" Mia shouted, turning sharply. "Hazel, are you home?"
No answer.
"Hazel!" Again.
Silence.
Mia stood up and walked through the house.
Her sister's room was empty. The bed was made too neatly. The closet door was half open. On the desk — nothing but dust and an old lamp. No backpack. No phone. No signs of life.
The bathroom — empty.
The kitchen — empty.
"Hazel!" Her voice broke.
Mia returned to the living room. Evelyn lay the same as before.
"Where is she?" Mia grabbed her mother by the shoulders. "Where is Hazel?!"
Evelyn mumbled something unintelligible. Mia shook her harder, no longer controlling her strength.
"Look at me," she said. "Where is my sister?!"
Evelyn's head turned to the side.
Mia followed the movement.
On a shelf, between old photographs and some trinket, stood an urn.
Simple. Metal. With a funeral home sticker.
The name was engraved neatly.
Hazel LaPierre
Mia took a step back.
Then another.
"No…" she said quietly. "No."
She stepped closer. Reached out her hand. Didn't touch it.
"This is a mistake," she said. "That's not her. You mixed it up."
Evelyn groaned.
Mia didn't look at her.
"Hazel couldn't have died," she continued. "She… You know that. She's stronger than me."
The words sounded right. Logical. They were supposed to fix something.
But nothing changed.
The air became heavy, thick. The house seemed to shrink.
Mia sank to the floor.
John was nearby. He didn't come too close. Didn't touch her. He just sat down beside her, at a distance where she would know — he was there.
Mia stared at the urn.
"This isn't true," she said more quietly. "This can't be true."
There was no answer.
And there shouldn't have been.
Something inside her began to collapse, not with a crash, but with a dull, slow sound — like a load-bearing structure breaking.
John stayed silent.
He understood: right now, any words would be unnecessary.
A car passed outside the window. Somewhere in the city, someone was living an ordinary life.
And here — everything was already over.
There was only emptiness now.
And the feeling that there was no road back anymore.