Lia

Coming home has always stirred a cocktail of comfort and unease within me. Comfort, because everything there still carried the scent of my childhood: the dark wooden furniture, the familiar creak of the old gate, the whiff of lavender on the pillow that my mother insisted on leaving in my room. Unease... because he would be there.

Henry.

And maybe because of that, it was difficult to pinpoint when the feelings shifted.

Or, more accurately... when I stopped turning a blind eye to ...