Chapter 2
Khalee
A month before
The car’s tires squeal on the gravel driveway, a sound so familiar yet so strange that it sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. I turn off the engine and sit for a moment, looking at the house.
My new-old house, as I’ve begun to call it in my head, stands before me like a relic—two floors of faded white paint and tired shutters that sag slightly on their hinges.
The wooden boards of the porch are warped, curled at the ends like the pages of a long-forgotten book.
But the roof still stands, and the windows, although dull and covered with dirt, reflect the pale afternoon sun.
I don’t hate it.
That realization surprises me as I look at it, still sitting inside the car.
I’d expected to resent this place, this town, this entire stretch of road that carries me closer to memories I’ve buried for five long years.
Instead, there is something, not quite comfort but familiarity, that softens the edges of my unease.
Stormhaven hasn’t changed much. The streets are the same, winding through a town that always feels like it’s holding its breath.
The coffee shop on Main Street still has its mismatched chairs out front.
The old movie theater, with its peeling marquee, still advertises last month’s films. Even the air smells the same, crisp with the faintest hint of pine.
It all feels suspended in time, waiting for me to return, though I never thought I would.
After a couple of minutes of contemplation, I gather the courage, exit my car, and grab the first box from the back seat, balancing it against my hip as I approach the front door.
From the backseat, Cosmos lets out an impatient, high-pitched meow, his tiny white paws pressing against the crate’s mesh. He’s been restless the entire drive, yowling every few minutes as if to remind me of his displeasure. I pick up his carrier as well and bring him along.
“I know, I know,” I murmur, setting the box down momentarily to open the door.
His golden eyes glare at me through the carrier, accusatory and dramatic, as if I’ve personally betrayed him by uprooting him from his previous life.
“You’ll love it here, trust me.” But he makes a noise that sounds distinctly unconvinced.
The key, old and slightly bent, sticks in the lock, but after a moment of fiddling, the door creaks open. The smell hits me first: dust, wood, and something faintly sweet, like flowers that have long since dried up but refuse to give up their scent.
The interior is brighter than I expected.
Sunlight filters through the lace curtains left behind by the previous tenant, casting patterns on the hardwood floor.
The living room is spacious, with a brick fireplace in the corner that looks as though it hasn’t been used in years.
The kitchen, visible through an open archway, has a worn charm: cracked tiles, a farmhouse sink, and cupboards painted a soft mint green. It’s quaint. Livable.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself, setting the box down on the floor. “Not terrible.”
The echo of my voice makes the house feel bigger than it is.
I glance toward the stairs, their dark wood banister polished smooth from years of hands running over it.
There was a time I would have loved this house.
I can almost picture the version of myself who would rush to claim a bedroom upstairs, eager to fill the space with books and posters and all the things I thought defined me, but that girl feels like a stranger now, and maybe that’s why I chose this place.
To see if I can still find traces of her (but also to be alone, something that wouldn’t be possible if I got back to my parents’ house).
The sound of gravel shifting outside breaks my train of thought.
I step back to the doorway and see Mada’s car pull in behind mine.
The passenger window is down, her face leaning out as she waves with exaggerated enthusiasm.
She’s smiling, but even from this distance, I can sense her unease.
She hasn’t been subtle about wanting to stay with me for a couple of weeks.
She misses me, she says. Misses her sister.
But the truth is written all over her face: she doesn’t trust me to be here alone.
I don’t think she trusts me at all. Not that she’d ever admit it. That’s just how we’ve always been, her being too much, me never being enough, both of us tangled in this exhausting loop of needing and resenting each other.
So I let her stay. And she decides to show up right now.
“This is it?” Mada calls out as she climbs out of the car, slams the door, and I wince.
“Wow. It’s… rustic.”
“Rustic is a polite way to put it,” I say, stepping onto the porch. “But for me, it’ll do.”
My sister scans the house, her brows knitting together. “It’s… bigger than I expected. Kind of creepy, though. Did you check for ghosts?”
I roll my eyes. “Ghosts wouldn’t bother sticking around here. Too much dust.”
She smirks and reaches into her trunk, pulling out a duffel bag that looks ridiculously light for a two-week stay.
Typical. Mada packs like she’s going to a sleepover, not an extended visit.
But considering we’re only ten minutes from our parents’ house, I doubt she plans on staying put for long.
If she needs something, she’ll just run home.
“You sure you don’t want to stay at Mom and Dad’s?” she asks, following me inside. “It’d be easier. Cleaner, too.”
“I’m sure.” My tone makes it clear that’s not up for debate. “I’ve been on my own too long. Going back would be… overwhelming.”
She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push. Not yet, anyway. Instead, she tosses her bag onto the floor and turns in a slow circle, taking in the room.
“Well, it’s your decision,” she says breezily. “Although I should probably warn you, I’ve been using your old room as a closet. Hope you don’t mind.”
The casual way she says it makes my chest tighten. I don’t say anything, though.
I don’t want to go back to that house, back to the weight of everything that happened there.
But knowing my room, the one place that still felt like mine, has been turned into storage?
It stings. Part of me wanted it to stay untouched, like a mausoleum of a time when I was happy.
But, of course, Mada wouldn’t care about that.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Stop looking at me with those puppy eyes,” she says, already exasperated.
“I’m not…”
“Yes, you are. Don’t be so dramatic.” She flops onto the nearest chair, stretching out like she owns the place. “Nobody even knew if you were coming back, and I needed the space.”
“Right. Because in a house with six bedrooms, you desperately needed mine.”
“Obviously,” she says, grinning like it’s a joke. But it’s not. Not really. “And anyway, you can’t be mad about it. You’ve got this whole place to yourself, don’t you?”
I press my lips together, ignoring the way my stomach twists. She always does this, says things that should hurt, but with just enough humor that I convince myself they don’t. So I just let it go. Like always.
And in the meantime, we begin renovating.
* * *
The house went through a transformation over the past week.
It wasn’t perfect; there were still a few stubborn stains on the kitchen tiles, and the bathroom faucet dripped if you didn’t tighten it just right, but it was livable.
It felt like mine, and that was something I hadn’t expected to happen so soon.
Mada and I had worked tirelessly, unpacking, rearranging, and scrubbing until our hands ached and our patience frayed.
But now, standing in the living room with my mismatched furniture and cozy, slightly chaotic vibe, I felt something close to pride.
“Not bad for a week,” Mada says, flopping onto the couch and kicking her feet up on the coffee table. She wears a satisfied grin, her energy undimmed despite the grueling days we’ve put in.
“Not bad at all,” I agree, though my gaze is already drifting toward the staircase. My favorite part of this house isn’t in the common areas. It’s upstairs, in the sanctuary I’ve created for myself.
My bedroom.
I’ve spent more time on it than any other space, pouring myself into every detail.
The walls are painted a rich, twilight purple—a color that deepens as the light fades, enveloping the room in a soft, velvety darkness.
The ceiling is my masterpiece: hand-painted constellations glimmer faintly, their silver outlines catching the light just enough to create the illusion of a night sky.
It isn’t perfect—some of the stars are uneven, and one of the constellations might be more of an abstract interpretation—but it’s mine.
And when I lie in bed at night, Cosmos curled up at my feet, it feels like the universe is folding itself around me.
Speaking of Cosmos, the little white cat has made himself right at home.
He’s claimed the corner of the couch as his throne during the day and spends the nights sprawled across my pillow, purring like a small engine.
He’s adjusted faster than I have, it seems, padding through the house with the confidence of a creature who knows he belongs.
Watching him settle in is comforting in a way I can’t quite articulate.
It’s as if his calm acceptance of this new place gives me permission to relax, too.
Not that I have much time to relax with Mada around.
“We should hit the diner tonight,” she says, pulling me out of my thoughts. “You know, celebrate our hard work with greasy burgers and milkshakes.”
I groan, sinking into the armchair across from her. “Mada, we’ve been around each other nonstop for a week. I love you, but I’m socially tapped out.”
She pouts, but there’s a sharpness behind it, an edge disguised as a joke. “You’ve been hanging out with me and Cosmos. That’s not ‘socializing.’”
“Exactly,” I shoot back. “It’s enough for me. That’s my usual speed.”