Kant held his steady pace, his pickup rocking over the road’s uneven patches. Margot’s hands itched as she flexed them on the wheel. She’d told herself not to expect anything. Not to daydream, not to imagine scenarios, because there might be nothing for her in Leafell. But every time she thought she might have stamped down hope, it rose again, aching in her heart and in her bones until she could barely breathe from it.

Hope for what?

She couldn’t answer herself, but it throbbed through her again—a deep, desperate want so powerful she felt like she could tear her own chest open if she could just be rid of it.

A side road split off from the driveway. Kant bypassed it, but Margot twisted to see down its length. There were more buildings in that direction. She caught glimpses of peaked roofs and fences, but then they were gone, and she focused back on the road ahead.

They continued to climb. The path was never too steep; her tiny hatchback was made for the suburbs, and even though the engine became growly, it didn’t struggle. But Margot was conscious of how far they were rising, even though the bends in the driveway worked to disguise it.

The drive turned one final time, and the flanking trees vanished behind Margot as she passed through an open gate. She tried to draw a breath, but the air caught in her throat. The wipers flashed past her eyes as they worked to smear the fine rain across the glass. Beyond, she had her first true glimpse of her childhood home.

It rose above her, broad and dark and heavy with shadows. Although it had a second floor, it was still wider than it was tall. Rooms sprawled out to both sides, jutting at inexplicable angles.

A wide porch wrapped around the building. Wooden posts supported the roof, rising out of the porch railings at regular intervals. Dark windows interrupted the walls. The roof was broad and ran at a low angle, and its gutters dripped excess water in a steady flow.

The car resolutely piped hot air toward her, but Margot felt the cold invade her bones.

This is…home?

She waited for something. Anything. Memories. Emotions. Even a sense of distant familiarity, like reconnecting with an old family friend.

The house offered her nothing.

Maybe they changed it—added extensions, renovated. It might have looked different when I was a child.

No, she realized. The house was old. Far, far older than Margot herself. The wooden walls were a map of cracks and stains. The boards might have held rich colors once, but time and sun had bleached them to gray. The roof had been maintained—smatters of new tiles intersected the mottled old—but Margot was hit by the impression that the building had not seen significant change in any recent generation.