Dust clings to the shelves and counter like a second skin. The old display case still sits beneath the front window, streaked with age.
The chalkboard menu is half-erased, the ghost of my grandmother’s writing still visible—“Tuesday: Peach Cobbler Muffins” scrawled in faded pink chalk.
My chest tightens.
I remember being six, perched on the counter, swinging my legs while Grandma made cinnamon buns, her hands always coated in flour. “Happy music makes sweet icing,” she used to say.
I blink hard. I’m not here to cry.
The bell above the door jingles again, and I jump.
“Wren?”
I turn, and there she is.
My mother.
Her unruly copper-red hair is somewhat tamed into a crooked bun, curls escaping in every direction like it’s been trying to run from her all morning. Moss-green eyes land on me, slightly squinted with surprise.
She’s still wearing her gardening apron—smudged, a little stained, probably from potting soil or the tomato vines in the back porch greenhouse.
“I saw Lori from the post office,” she says, stepping inside. “She mentioned she saw your car. And you know how that goes.” She waves a hand like it explains everything.
“Fox Hollow’s own broadcast network,” I murmur.
She grins, but it falters as she takes me in. “You look… tired.”
I don’t answer that.
Her gaze softens. “We were just talking about you. The Harvest Festival committee met earlier this week. Flyers went up in the square.” She gestures vaguely. “Pack Built Construction’s sponsoring the setup this year. You remember them, right? Willa’s son runs it now.”
“Isn’t the festival in October?”
She shrugs. “Only three months away. And you know how serious people get about the pie contest.”
I look around the café again. “This place looks almost the same.”
“Of course,” she says. “We haven’t touched it since. Come on, let’s go home for now. There’s still tea, and I made scones this morning.”
The word “home” tastes strange.
I follow her out anyway.
The house hasn’t changed either.
It’s still pale blue with white trim and an overgrown garden of sunflowers reaching too high for the season. The porch swing creaks when I climb the steps.
Inside, everything hits at once.
Photos line the walls—some of me as a child, some of my parents smiling with hollow eyes, pretending things were better than they were.
I spot Grandma and me at the Harvest Festival when I was ten. She’s got flour on her cheeks, and I’m holding a first-place ribbon like it’s sacred.
My father is in the kitchen, wearing the same cardigan he always wears when he’s irritated. He glances up from his crossword.
Pancake trots in behind me, tail flicking.
My dad clears his throat. “You brought the cat?”
