The warm sun filtered through the window of the moving taxi.
Alana sat lost in thought as the car rolled down a lonely road lined with trees. It was a summer morning — the air felt fresh and pure, so different from New York City. For the first time in a long while, she felt a flicker of hope… and fear.
She was free now, yet the scar on her arm reminded her of what she'd escaped. Her fingers brushed over it — she could still feel it. She could still feel him.
Her eyes snapped open. She realized she'd slipped back into the memories again — something she'd promised herself she wouldn't do. She couldn't keep drowning in self-pity. Watching the trees blur past, Alana reminded herself this was a fresh start — a chance to begin again.
The "Welcome to Gray Hollow" signpost loomed ahead, its paint faded and peeling, half-swallowed by overgrown vines. Her chest tightened. This was it — the town she once called home. Regret and nostalgia washed through her, bittersweet and heavy. For a fleeting second, she could almost see the ghost of the girl she'd been before everything fell apart. Tears stung her eyes — But then a shiver crept down her spine. The world outside seemed to lose its color. Whispers… faint and breathy, like wind through hollow wood.
"Alana!"
A rusty voice echoed — familiar, yet wrong and harsh.
Her head jerked up. "What?" she gasped, twisting in her seat.
The driver frowned in the rearview mirror. "What's wrong?"
"Did you just call my name?"
"Yeah. We've arrived, miss. Sorry if I startled you." He climbed out, shutting his door with a soft thud, and moved to the trunk.
She exhaled shakily. "Right… thanks."
"It's no problem. I can carry the bags to the porch. My family and I were close to Ms. Jane — just doing a favor."
"You knew my grandma?"
"Of course. Small town like this — everyone knows everyone. And… I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thanks," Alana murmured, her voice catching.
He hefted her suitcases onto the gravel. "Well, I'd best head off. My wife's making roast chicken and mashed potatoes for lunch — can't miss that. You should drop by sometime if you need anything. We're the old farm down the street — practically neighbors."
"Thanks…uh—"
"Tom," he said with a small grin. "Call me Tom. See you around, neighbor."
And then he was gone, the taxi's engine fading into the hum of cicadas.
Alana stood alone before the house. The air smelled of warm earth and wildflowers, with a hint of old wood and dust. Someone had been trimming the grass; the neat edges looked out of place against the sagging porch steps. The house sat slightly on a hill, catching the morning light on its weathered windows. From the front, she could see the sleepy sweep of Gray Hollow — narrow streets, the steeple of a church, a few shops crouched together under awnings. From the back and left, the fields stretched open and golden, dotted with wild blooms and grazing deer.
She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing it all in. The silence felt alive — full of crickets, distant birds, and the whisper of the breeze brushing her hair. This was so different from the city. She had forgotten what stillness felt like… or maybe she'd just stopped believing it could exist.
Her chest ached, but In a gentler way — not the kind that hurt, but the kind that began to heal.
So this is what freedom tastes like, she thought, slipping the key the lawyers had given her into the lock. The metal clicked, echoing faintly through the empty house, and the door creaked open as if the old place recognized her.
As she stepped inside, silence greeted her — thick and heavy, like the house itself was holding its breath. Dust motes drifted lazily through the air, catching the thin shafts of sunlight that cut through the half-drawn curtains. The faint scent of old wood, paper, and lavender soap clung to the walls — her grandmother's scent. It made her chest tighten.
Though she was jet-lagged and her bones ached from the journey, she knew she couldn't rest yet. Not until she'd brought a bit of life back into the place. She pushed open the windows one by one. The hinges groaned in protest, releasing a rush of fresh summer air that stirred the curtains and carried the smell of grass and rain-soaked earth inside.
The furniture stood ghostlike beneath white sheets, neat but untouched — as if waiting for her return. It was a small, cozy two-bedroom house with an attic tucked beneath a slanted roof. Her hand brushed the doorframe, where faint pencil lines still marked her height through the years. She smiled faintly, tracing the names and numbers that blurred under her fingertips.
Five years old. Grandma's laughter echoed faintly in her memory — the smell of pancakes, the warmth of her arms.
Her chest clenched. She turned the doorknob to her old room and froze.
It was exactly as she remembered — or almost. The faded wallpaper of painted clouds, the tiny wooden bed, the little closet that always creaked when opened. Her dolls were gone, but the shape of her childhood lingered in the air like a memory that refused to die.
She sank onto the floor. The years collapsed around her.
She had been taken from this room at seven — dragged away by the father who'd just come out of prison. Eighteen years had passed, and yet everything looked the same. Nothing had changed, except her.
Her throat tightened. She whispered, "Grandma Janey…"
She hadn't come to the funeral. The guilt of it gnawed at her every day. The only person who had ever truly loved her — and she hadn't been there to say goodbye. He wouldn't let her. He'd cut her off from the world, beaten her into silence, drugged and degraded her until she forgot what freedom felt like.
The pain broke through before she could stop it. She folded onto the floor, hugging her knees, trembling. The tears came in waves — silent at first, then raw and gasping. Her makeup smudged, streaking down her cheeks, revealing the scar she always tried to hide.
She pressed her face against her knees, the wood floor warm beneath her. For once, she didn't fight it. She let the years pour out — every bruise, every lie, every night she'd stayed awake, praying to wake up somewhere else.
Her phone buzzed from the bag near the door. She didn't move. She didn't care.
All she could whisper, between broken breaths, was, "I'm sorry… and thank you, Grandma."
She had hated her once — believed she'd betrayed her by letting her father take her away. But now she knew the truth: her grandmother had fought, but the court hadn't listened. She hadn't lost her; she'd been taken.
And when she finally turned eighteen, when she thought she'd escaped her father's cruelty, she'd found herself trapped again — this time by a man who'd promised love and delivered terror.
Now, at last, the walls of this quiet house seemed to hold her safely, the way her grandmother once did. Her sobs slowed, softening to quiet hiccups.
The light shifted through the window, warm against her skin.
Exhaustion took her, heavy and deep, and she fell asleep there — on the old wooden floor, surrounded by dust, sunlight, and the faint scent of lavender and home.