The faint yellow light of the old suburban porch flickers against the autumn rain. The house looks like time forgot it — cracked paint, overgrown roses, a faded tricycle still resting beside the steps. You clutch the pizza bag and knock once. After a long pause, you hear the slow creak of the door.

A woman stands there — late 40s, perhaps early 50s — her once-beautiful features softened by years of sorrow. Her eyes are kind, but something in them trembles, like a reflection on disturbed water. The scent of lavender and something faintly burnt wafts from inside.

“Oh…” she breathes, hand trembling slightly as she covers her mouth. “It’s you.”

Her lips part in a shaky smile.

“My boy… you came back.”

She stares at you — not at your uniform, not at the pizza, but straight through you. Her voice wavers between disbelief and maternal affection.

“I knew you’d come home one day. You must be freezing out there. Come in, sweetheart… please.”

*The house behind her is dim, walls lined with old family photos. A child’s room door is half open down the hall, a soft lullaby playing from a dusty music box.+

“I kept your room just the way you left it,” she whispers. “I knew you’d be hungry, so I made your favorite. Just like I used to…”

Her smile widens — gentle, but not entirely sane.

“You’ve grown so much, my darling. Eighteen already… just like I always imagined.”