Darius left the house just before the sun started to dip, when the heat finally began to lose its teeth. He'd swapped the t-shirt for a fresh black one and kept the jeans and boots—simple, familiar, nothing that screamed "just got back." The streets of Willow Creek were quiet in that late-afternoon way: a few cars idling at stop signs, kids riding bikes in lazy circles on cracked sidewalks, the distant hum of a lawnmower somewhere blocks away.
He walked without a plan, letting his feet carry him past the places he used to know by heart. The old movie theater on Elm had closed years ago—windows boarded, marquee letters missing so it read "WILLOW CREE THEA" like a half-finished sentence. The diner where Mom worked sat at the corner of Main and Oak, neon "Open" sign flickering even in daylight. Through the glass he could see her moving between tables, tray balanced on one hand, smile automatic but real when she spotted him through the window. She gave a small wave. He lifted his chin in return and kept walking.
He turned down a side street lined with older homes—bungalows with wide porches, pecan trees heavy with green husks. That's when he saw her.
Isolde Thorne was in the front yard of the pale-yellow house on the corner, the one that used to belong to old Mrs. Whitaker before she passed. Isolde knelt in the grass near a folding table, surrounded by sketchbooks and charcoal pencils scattered like fallen leaves. She wore black high-waisted yoga leggings that hugged her long legs and a loose white tank top knotted at the side, revealing a sliver of toned midriff when she reached for another sheet of paper. Her platinum hair was pulled into a high ponytail, strands escaping to frame her face, catching the fading light like spun silver. Barefoot, toes digging into the grass, she didn't seem to notice the heat.
She was drawing—quick, fluid strokes—something abstract, all sharp angles and swirling shadows. A pair of earbuds dangled from one ear; the other was free, like she couldn't stand to be completely cut off from the world.
Darius slowed without meaning to. She looked up when his boots scuffed the sidewalk.
Her green eyes widened for half a second, then softened. She pulled the earbud out, set the pencil down.
"Darius," she said, voice soft and halting, like every word had to be carefully chosen. "You're… back."
"Yeah."
She stood, brushing grass from her palms. Up close he could see the faint freckles across her nose, the smudge of charcoal on her left cheek. She was taller than he remembered—almost eye-level with him in her bare feet—and thinner, but not fragile. More like a reed that bent instead of breaking.
"I heard," she said. "Your mom mentioned it at the grocery store last week. Said you got hurt overseas."
He nodded once. "Shrapnel. Shoulder."
Her gaze flicked to his left side, quick, then back to his face. She didn't ask for details. Instead she tilted her head toward the sketchpad.
"I was just… drawing. The light's good this time of day. Makes everything look like it's on fire without actually burning."
He glanced at the page. Swirling lines, dark and chaotic, but there was something almost beautiful in the destruction—like a storm caught mid-twist.
"Looks intense," he said.
She gave a small, poetic smile. "Everything's intense if you look long enough." A pause. "You want to see the rest?"
He hesitated. Then stepped onto the grass.
She flipped back a few pages—more sketches: twisted trees, fractured skylines, a single figure standing in the middle of a burning field. No color, just charcoal and shadow. Each one felt raw, like she'd poured something into the paper and left it there.
"You always drew like that?" he asked.
"More now," she said quietly. "After… things. It helps. Like breathing through a straw when the air's too thick."
He understood that feeling better than he wanted to.
She closed the sketchbook, hugged it to her chest. "You staying long?"
"For now."
She nodded, like that was enough. "If you ever want to sit out here while I draw… you can. No talking required. Just… company."
He looked at her—really looked. The way the sunset turned her hair almost white-gold, the quiet steadiness in her eyes despite whatever shadows she carried. She wasn't asking for anything. Just offering space.
"Maybe," he said.
Her smile was small, almost shy. "I'll be here most afternoons. When the light's right."
She bent to gather her pencils, ponytail swinging. The yoga leggings stretched over her thighs as she moved, graceful even in the simple act of cleaning up. She straightened, brushed a loose strand behind her ear.
"See you around, Darius."
"Yeah. See you."
She turned back to the house, bare feet silent on the grass. At the porch she glanced over her shoulder once—quick, almost like she wasn't sure he'd still be there.
He was.
He watched her disappear inside, then started walking again.
The cicadas were louder now, a steady pulse under the evening sky. He passed the old park where he and Amara used to sit on the swings until the streetlights came on. The swings were still there, chains rusted, seats cracked.
He didn't stop.
By the time he looped back to Maple, the sky had gone deep orange, streaked with purple. Mom's Taurus was already in the driveway. Through the kitchen window he could see her moving—setting plates, humming something low and soulful.
He climbed the porch steps, boots heavy.
The screen door squeaked as he pushed it open.
"Baby?" Mom called from inside. "That you?"
"Yeah, Ma."
She appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "You been out walking?"
"Little bit."
She studied him for a second, then smiled. "Good. Town still remembers you."
He didn't answer. Just stepped inside.
The house smelled like fried chicken and greens. Comforting. Familiar.
He sat at the table while she finished dinner.
Outside, the cicadas kept singing.
And somewhere in the quiet spaces between their notes, he thought he could almost hear the scratch of charcoal on paper, the soft rustle of a sundress in the breeze.
Almost.