The room went quiet.
Jax turned on him, eyes glassy.“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means I’m taking a break.”Vic kept his voice even, though his chest felt tight.“This isn’t fun anymore.It’s just the same shit my old man went through, except none of us are having a good time doing it.”
Riley scoffed.“You gonna bail like the last guy?”
Vic looked at each of them—Jax’s reckless charisma now looking desperate, Riley’s sharp talent edged with bitterness, Trey’s quiet disappointment, Nova’s exhausted resignation—and felt a strange sense of calm.
“Yeah,” he said simply.“I am.”
***
He packed his kit innear silence while the others kept arguing around him.Nova helped him load the last case into the back of a rented van without saying much.When they were done, she gave him a tight hug.
“You were the best thing about this band,” she muttered against his shoulder.“Don’t disappear completely, okay?”
Vic nodded, throat tight.“You either.”
He climbed into the driver’s seat and pointed the van toward the interstate.In the rearview mirror, the venue lights grew smaller until they disappeared entirely.
***
The same faded blueshutters.The same lopsided porch swing.The same lemon-polish and old-house smell when he stepped through the door at two in the morning.
Grams was waiting up anyway, wrapped in her housecoat, a cup of decaf tea cooling on the table beside her recliner.She looked even smaller than the last time he’d come home—like the house itself was slowly swallowing her.
“You’re back sooner than I expected,” she said softly, searching his face with those sharp, knowing eyes.
Vic dropped his duffel and crossed the room to hug her.She felt painfully fragile in his arms.The realization settled heavy in his chest, heavier than the disappointment of another band falling apart.
“You know how the music industry goes,” he told her, keeping it simple.“Figured it was time to come home for a bit.”
She patted his back like she had when he was twelve years old and came home crying because his dad forgot to pick him up after a gig.“Well, the guest room’s made up.Your room, I mean.And there’s leftover pot roast in the fridge if you’re hungry.”
He helped her back to bed, then stood in the hallway for a long moment, listening to the familiar creaks and sighs of the old house.The same sounds that had once meant safety now carried a different weight.
Nothing had changed.
The posters of his father’s old band still hung on his bedroom wall.The twin bed still groaned when he sat on it.The same crack in the ceiling stared down at him when he lay back.
He was twenty-seven years old, back in the same room he’d slept in as a teenager, with the same uncertain future stretching out in front of him.
Vic closed his eyes and let out a long breath.
Home hadn’t changed.
But maybe...maybe it was timehedid.
***
The house felt toostill these days.Too full of memories and not enough life.He could hear the faint tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway and the soft, occasional rustle of Grams turning a page in her crossword book.
Vic had been home less than ten days when his phone rang.
The sound cut through the heavy quiet of Grams’ living room like a crack of thunder.He was sprawled on the old couch, one leg hanging off the side, staring at the ceiling fan turning in lazy circles overhead.
He glanced across the room at her.She was dozing in her recliner again, the half-finished puzzle resting in her lap, pencil still clutched loosely in her fingers.Her profile was blurry, looking somehow smaller than she had this morning.The house looked smaller too.Everything did.
