Wren
The road into Stanley is darker than I expected.
Trees press in on both sides, tall and endless, their branches reaching toward each other like they're closing the gap above my head. The rental car's headlights cut a narrow path through the night, illuminating patches of asphalt and pine needles, and not much else.
I keep both hands on the wheel.
The radio is off. I don't trust noise yet.
I've been travelling for hours, and still my body feels like it's bracing for impact. At any second, I'll hear his voice, sharp and sudden, telling me I've done something wrong.
But there's only the hum of the engine.
Only the road.
I follow the directions written on the back of an old Christmas card, the ink smudged where my thumb pressed too hard.
Turn left after the gas station.
Keep going when the road narrows.
If you hit the trees, you're close.
That's how Tif always wrote. Like the world was something you could feel your way through instead of a map.
I don't remember the first card she sent after we stopped speaking. I only remember the panic when I saw her handwriting in the mailbox.
Daniel had been standing behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him. I slid the envelope into my bag without opening it, my heart pounding as I'd already been caught.
After that, I learned how to hide them.
Birthday cards tucked between sketchbooks I no longer use. Christmas cards slipped behind old canvases; the ones he said were a waste of space. I told him I'd throw them away.
I never did.
Each one said the same thing in a hundred different ways.
I'm still here.
I miss you.
You don't have to reply.
And then, one year, she added something else.
An address.
No explanation. No pressure.
Just: If you ever want to write. If you ever want to come. I'd love to hear from you.
I didn't write.
But I memorised it.
The road curves, and suddenly the trees open up enough that I can see the outline of mountains against the sky. Darker shapes against a darker night. There's a lake somewhere nearby — I can smell it even before I see it, clean, cold and sharp.
I slow down without realising I'm doing it.
This place feels… quiet. Not empty. Just still. Like it's holding its breath.
I pass a handful of houses, spaced far apart, lights glowing warm behind windows. No fences. No driveways lined up in neat rows. Just space.
I turn where the envelope tells me to.
The house is exactly how I imagined it from her cards. Small. Wood siding. A porch light was left on as if she expected me. The driveway is gravel, crunching softly under the tyres as I pull in.
I sit there for a second, engine running, hands still locked around the steering wheel.
I've never been this far from anything I know.
I shut the car off.
The silence rushes in, thick and immediate, broken only by the distant sound of water moving somewhere in the dark.
I step out of the car and close the door quietly, like I'm still afraid of being heard. The air is cold enough to sting my lungs, but I welcome it. It feels real. Grounding.
I walk up the path to the porch, every step heavy with the weight of what I've done.
The door opens before my hand can reach it.
Tif stands there, barefoot and wide-eyed, like she's afraid this might be a trick. Then she looks at my face properly — really looks — and whatever she sees there makes her expression shatter.
"Oh my God," she breathes.
She pulls me into her arms, holding on like she's been waiting for this moment her whole life.
"You're safe," she whispers into my hair. "You're here."
My knees give out before I can stop them.
We sink to the floor together. She strokes my hair, rocking and shushing me like I'm something fragile instead of broken.
"Come on," she murmurs. "Let's get you inside. You're freezing."
She guides me into the house and sits me on the sofa in front of a roaring fire. I curl into myself and sob, the kind that hurts everywhere, while she holds me without letting go.
"I've got you, Hun," she says softly. "I've got you. Let me get you a hot drink."
"You got anything stronger?"
She laughs, and for the first time in what seems like forever, I laugh too.
We talked for hours after that. Not all at once — in pieces and pauses, in sentences that trail off when they get too heavy. I tell her how small my world became, how quiet I learned to be, how I stopped recognising myself without realising when it happened. I tell her about the isolation, about the fear that settled into my bones so slowly I mistook it for normal. She doesn't interrupt. She doesn't ask for proof or explanations. She listens, holding my hand when my voice falters, grounding me in the simple fact that I'm not alone anymore.
"I have a spare room, and you can stay with me for as long as you need," Tif says gently. "But for tonight, you can share my bed — like we used to back in the day. Tomorrow we'll go into town and get you everything you need to make you feel at home."
She smiles at me then, soft and certain.
"Because this is your home now."
I stare at her, a tear slipping down my cheek, unable to believe how lucky I am to have my best friend back.
"I honestly don't know what I'd do without you," I whisper. "I owe you everything. I love you so much. Thank you, Tif."
She pulls me into her arms again, and later, curled up beneath her warm duvet, she holds me close; something inside my chest finally loosens.
For the first time in a long time, I feel safe.
Morning comes softly.
No shouting. No sharp intake of breath beside me. Just pale light creeping through the curtains and the steady sound of someone moving around the kitchen. For a moment, I don't know where I am — and then I remember.
Tif.
Stanley.
Safe.
I lie there longer than I need to, letting the feeling settle before I move. When I finally sit up, the house smells like coffee and something sweet — cinnamon, maybe. Comforting. Ordinary.
Tif grins at me when I shuffle into the kitchen, wrapped in one of her oversized sweaters. "Morning, sunshine."
I almost laugh at that. Almost. My body doesn't quite trust happiness yet.
We start with the practical things. The rental car first. It feels strange getting back behind the wheel so soon, but I don't want to spend money on things I don't need at this point. Tif follows behind me in her car, and once we've dropped the rental back, we make our way into Stanley together.
"You can use my car," she says easily as we drive. "I barely go anywhere that isn't walkable anyway."
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. Every small kindness still catches me off guard.
Stanley is smaller in daylight. Friendlier. People wave as they pass, some of them calling Tif by name. She introduces me without ceremony.
"This is Wren."
"My best friend."
No questions. No looks that linger too long. Just smiles, nods, and comments about the weather or the time of year. I'm not new here — I'm with her, and apparently that's enough.
We stop at a little shop where she helps me pick out clothes — warm things, soft things, things that feel like they belong to someone who plans to stay. Bedding comes next. I run my hand over the fabric longer than necessary, choosing something simple and calm, like I'm allowed preferences again.
By the time we end up at the local diner, I'm exhausted in a way that feels earned instead of hollow.
We slide into a booth by the window, sunlight warming the table between us. The waitress greets Tif like an old friend and brings coffee without being asked.
I wrap my hands around the mug and breathe it in.
"I should get a job," I say after a moment. The words come out carefully. "Help pay my way; I don't want to be a burden."
Tif looks at me over the rim of her cup, one eyebrow lifting. "You're not a burden."
"I know," I say quickly. "I just… I want to contribute."
She studies me for a beat, then smiles — not soft this time but knowing.
"What about your painting?"
The word lands gently, but my chest still tightens.
"I haven't really—" I stop myself. "I haven't painted in so long. What if I'm not any good anymore?"
Tif leans back, crossing her arms. "You were always happiest when you were painting," she says. "And you were amazing. You might be a little rusty at first, but it'll come back."
I think about all the canvases I left behind. The half-finished ideas. The parts of myself I packed away.
"Maybe," I say quietly.
She smiles wider. "We'll start there."
And for the first time since I left, the idea of a future doesn't feel like something I have to outrun.