Sophie spent the morning sorting through her mother's records.
They were stored in the hallway closet, beneath old blankets and photo albums. Dust clung to every sleeve, and most of the vinyl smelled faintly of cedar and time. Her mother had always listened to music while cleaning—soft jazz or early folk that wrapped around the house like perfume.
Sophie pulled out a record—Carole King, Tapestry. The sleeve was frayed at the edges, a crease splitting through the image. She remembered Sunday mornings, the sound of "So Far Away" echoing through the house while her mother made scrambled eggs.
She set it on the turntable in the living room, gently dropped the needle, and sat back.
The crackle came first, then the soft hum of piano.
Tears prickled before the lyrics even began.
She wasn't crying just for her mother. She was crying for all the pieces of herself she'd buried over the years. The girl who once sang into hairbrushes and wanted to be a songwriter. The one who left home believing she had to become someone else to matter.
Now she didn't know who she was supposed to be.
She sat on the rug, legs crossed, arms wrapped around her knees, and listened to the entire album. When it ended, she didn't move. She let the silence settle, thick and still.
Then the front door opened.
Jake stepped in without knocking. He held a coffee in each hand and paused when he saw her on the floor.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
She nodded. "Just… remembering things I forgot mattered."
Jake walked over and sat beside her, offering her one of the cups. "Tried to guess your order. Still like black with one sugar?"
She took it. "I do."
They sat like that for a while—knee to knee, coffee warming their hands.
"I used to think coming back here would feel like failure," she admitted. "Like I'd wasted everything I built."
"Does it?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Not anymore. It just feels like coming home to a stranger I used to be."
Jake sipped his coffee. "That's not a bad thing. Strangers can still become something."
They glanced at each other, the weight of unspoken things between them—memories, regrets, old laughter stitched into every corner of this town.
"I found more letters," Sophie said. "In her closet this time. Some were addressed to me. Others to herself."
Jake looked at her with quiet understanding. "What did they say?"
"That she missed me. That she was proud even when she didn't say it. And that she hated the way we left things."
Jake rested his hand lightly on hers. "Sounds like she wanted peace."
Sophie nodded. "I think so. And maybe I do too."
That afternoon, they drove to the lake.
It was the place they used to escape to as teenagers—where curfews didn't matter and the stars felt closer. The dock was still there, weathered and half-broken. The water shimmered beneath the early spring sun.
Sophie stood at the edge, watching the wind move across the surface. "I haven't been here in over a decade."
Jake smiled softly. "You used to say this was the only place you could breathe."
She turned to him. "It still is."
They sat at the edge of the dock, feet dangling, shoes off.
Jake skipped a stone, watching it bounce once before sinking. "Do you ever think about what would've happened if we stayed together?"
"All the time."
He nodded. "Me too."
Sophie rested her chin on her knees. "But we didn't. And maybe we weren't supposed to."
Jake was quiet for a long moment. "Maybe not then. But maybe now?"
She looked at him. He didn't rush her, didn't press. He just let the question hang there like possibility.
"I don't have answers," she whispered. "Just feelings I buried for a long time."
He nodded. "That's enough."
The sun dipped low. They stayed until the wind grew colder and the sky turned pink.
On the drive back, Sophie glanced at him in the fading light.
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
"Anything."
"Did you hate me? For leaving?"
Jake's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "No. I hated how much I missed you. That I couldn't hate you even when I tried."
Sophie looked out the window. Her voice broke when she said, "I'm sorry."
He reached over, gently brushing her knuckles. "You don't have to be. You're here now."
---
Back at the house, Sophie found herself lingering at the front door.
Jake looked at her, as if unsure whether to stay or go.
She reached for him—tentative, gentle. Their fingers met first, then hands, then arms wrapping around shoulders and sides like the years had never passed.
He held her for a long time.
And when he finally pulled back, he kissed her forehead.
It wasn't rushed.
It wasn't a promise.
But it was something.
And that, for now, was enough.