The Greyhound bus hissed to a stop at the edge of Willow Creek like it was glad to be done with its last passenger. Darius Kane stepped down onto cracked asphalt that threw heat straight through the soles of his boots. Late July in Texas, the sun still high and unforgiving, bleaching everything the color of old paper. Dust swirled lazily around his ankles, clinging to the cuffs of his faded jeans like it recognized him.
He shifted the duffel strap over his good shoulder—the left one still complained every time he lifted anything heavier than a water bottle—and looked up Main Street. The same faded "Welcome to Willow Creek – Pop. 4,812" sign, crooked letters, same bullet hole somebody put through the "8" years ago. Nothing had changed. Everything felt smaller.
His phone buzzed once in his pocket. Mom.
Baby I'm at the diner. Shift ends in ten. Come get some pie before it gets cold.
He didn't reply. Just started walking.
The air smelled like dry grass, barbecue smoke drifting from the pit behind Ray's Place, and the faint metallic tang of diesel that always lingered around the bus stop. Cicadas screamed in the live oaks lining the street, a steady drone that matched the low throb behind his scar. He rolled his left shoulder once, felt the familiar pull of scar tissue and the metal fragments the surgeons couldn't dig out completely. The pain wasn't sharp anymore—just constant, like someone had left a hot coal lodged under the skin.
Three blocks later he passed the old hardware store where he used to buy nails for his dad's weekend projects. The window display still had the same red Craftsman toolbox, faded to pink in the sun. He kept walking.
Mom's house sat on Maple, third from the corner—white clapboard with blue shutters that had peeled to gray. The porch swing still hung crooked, chain rusted on one side. A pot of geraniums sat on the top step—red blooms stubborn against the heat. He climbed the three stairs slowly, boots heavy on the wood.
The screen door squeaked open before he could knock.
Mom stood there in her waitress uniform—pink blouse, black skirt, name tag still pinned crooked like always. Her hair was pulled into a loose bun, more gray threading through the black than he remembered. She looked smaller, or maybe he was just bigger now. Twenty-four felt a long way from eighteen.
"Baby," she said, voice cracking on the word.
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him without hesitation. She smelled like coffee grounds, fryer grease, and the same vanilla body spray she'd worn since he was ten. He let her hug him, arms coming up slowly, careful not to squeeze too hard. His left shoulder protested anyway.
"You're home," she whispered into his chest.
"Yeah, Ma."
She pulled back, hands on his arms, studying his face like she was memorizing new lines. Her eyes—hazel, same as his—were wet but not spilling.
"You hungry?"
"Always."
She laughed, short and shaky, then tugged him inside.
The living room smelled like lemon polish and old photo albums. The same brown couch sagged in the middle. The same framed picture of Dad in dress blues sat on the mantel—young, smiling, arm around a younger Mom who looked like she could take on the world. Darius's eyes skipped over it the way they always did.
Mom didn't ask about the scar, didn't ask about the limp he tried to hide when he was tired, didn't ask about the dreams that still woke him sweating and reaching for a rifle that wasn't there. She just led him to the kitchen.
The table was already set. Two plates. Cornbread still steaming under a towel. A bowl of collards slick with pot liquor. A slice of pecan pie big enough for two people.
"Sit," she said.
He sat.
She poured sweet tea—extra ice, the way he liked it—then slid into the chair across from him. For a minute neither of them spoke. Just the clink of fork on plate, the hum of the ceiling fan, cicadas outside the screen window.
"You gonna tell me?" she asked finally.
He swallowed a bite of cornbread. It tasted like childhood—crumbly, buttery, a little too sweet.
"Shrapnel," he said. "Left shoulder, down the back. Nerve damage. Docs say I'm done. Honorable discharge. Med board was quick."
She nodded once, like she'd already known most of it from the letters he'd stopped writing months ago.
"They give you something for the pain?"
"Yeah. Pills. I don't take 'em much."
She reached across the table, laid her hand over his wrist. Her fingers were warm, callused from years of carrying trays.
"You don't have to carry it all alone, baby."
He looked at her hand instead of her eyes. "I know, Ma."
She squeezed once, then let go. "Your room's the same. Sheets are clean. I aired it out yesterday."
He nodded.
After dinner she hummed while she washed dishes—an old Aretha song, low and steady. He stood in the doorway and watched her back move, the same rhythm she'd had when he was small and she'd sing him down from nightmares about monsters under the bed.
When she turned to dry her hands, she caught him looking.
"You gonna be okay, baby?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. The words he wanted—I don't know—stuck somewhere behind the scar.
Instead he said, "I'm here, Ma."
She smiled, small and tired and real.
"That's enough for tonight."
He carried his duffel upstairs. The stairs creaked in the same places. His old room smelled like dust and cedar. The bed was made with the blue quilt his grandmother had sewn. Marine Corps poster still tacked above the headboard—Eagle, Globe, Anchor faded to almost nothing.
He dropped the bag. Sat on the edge of the mattress. The springs groaned.
Outside, the cicadas kept screaming.
He rubbed his left shoulder in slow circles, feeling the ridge of scar tissue under his shirt. Felt the house settle around him like it was trying to remember how to hold him again.
Home.
Whatever the hell that meant now.
He lay back, boots still on, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that had always looked like a fist.
The sun slipped lower. Shadows stretched long across the floorboards.
Downstairs, Mom started humming again.
Darius closed his eyes.
For the first time in three years, the noise in his head almost—almost—went quiet.