Page 45 of Cyclone

And when I was ready...

I would find my way back to him.

25

Jude

The road home felt like a thousand miles long, even though the drive only took a couple of days.

Every curve, every worn-down sign, every mile marker whispered pieces of a life I hadn’t touched in years. I tightened my hands on the steering wheel, the old pain sitting so heavy in my chest, it hurt to breathe.

I had to do this.

Not just for me — for them.

The town hadn’t changed much. Same faded diner sign blinking “Open” in the window. The same brick fire station where parades started and ended. Same tired old oaks lining the streets, their heavy branches casting long, familiar shadows.

I parked a few houses down from where I lived, heart hammering so loud it drowned out the world.

For a moment, I couldn’t move. I just sat there, staring at the house I lived in— the home where I had been a wife, mother, and woman who believed she had forever.

It looked smaller now.

Emptier.

A heavy breath shook out of me as I grabbed the keys from my bag and stepped out into the crisp air.

As I walked to the front door, my boots crunched over the gravel driveway. My hand trembled when I slid the key into the lock, half-expecting it not to work for me — to push me away, like I'd done to everyone else.

But the door swung open on the first try.

And there it was.

Frozen in time.

The scent of old wood and a faint musky scent hung in the air, memories punching me so hard I staggered.

Her shoes.

Still lined up by the door.

His jacket.

Still hanging on the back of the chair.

Laughter. Life.

All of it buried under a thick layer of dust and silence.

I pressed my hand to the doorframe, needing the support.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered into the empty house.

“I’m so damn sorry.”

Room by room, I moved through the wreckage of my old life, touching, remembering, aching.

The photo on the mantel of the three of us at the lake.

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