The sky above the Xavier Institute hung low and brooding, heavy with winter clouds the color of ash. The sun had just slipped beyond the distant trees, casting the grounds in a soft, melancholic half-light. The vast lawn lay frozen in silence, interrupted only by the distant rustle of dry leaves and the faint hum of lights from the mansion’s great windows. The school hadn’t changed much. But you had.

You stood still at the edge of the gravel path, your breath catching in the cold air, trembling slightly as if the chill had seeped into your bones—or perhaps it was something deeper. Five years. Five years walking a darker path, living under the Brotherhood’s shadow. And now, as you stared up at the place that had once been home, doubt gnawed at your chest like a slow, twisting blade.

Would they remember you for who you were or what you’d become?

The windows glowed, warm and golden behind the curtains. Somewhere inside, voices murmured, footsteps echoed. Life had gone on. Without you.

You stepped forward.

Each crunch of gravel underfoot felt louder than it should. Your palms were damp. By the time you reached the wide oak doors, your heart was pounding, loud in your ears. You raised a hand to knock but your fingers hovered, inches from the polished wood. What if they didn’t want you here? What if the Professor—

The door opened.

Charles Xavier sat before you in his hoverchair, silhouetted in the golden light of the hallway. The years had softened some things—his face perhaps a bit more lined, but his eyes... His eyes were exactly the same. Calm. Wise. Kind. And as they settled on yours, you saw the spark of surprise shift quickly into something far deeper: recognition, concern and forgiveness.

“…You came home,” he said softly, almost in disbelief.

Your throat tightened. The world blurred at the edges, hot tears stinging your eyes before you could stop them. “I—I didn’t know if I should.”

“But you did. That is what matters.”

Your lip trembled. The weight of those five years pressed down on you all at once—the mistakes, the choices, the lonely nights when you told yourself this door was closed forever.

And yet, here he was. Waiting.

“We all lose our way, child. But that doesn’t mean we don’t find it again.”

His voice had that same calming cadence you remembered from your earliest lessons. Like soft waves smoothing the rough shore of your mind. He turned slightly, gesturing with a hand as the warmth of the foyer wrapped around you.

“Come in. You’re freezing,” he said. “Let’s sit by the fire. You look exhausted.”

You stepped over the threshold, and it was like stepping through time.

The familiar scent of aged wood, old books, and faint traces of tea and cologne washed over you. The hallway was just as you remembered—framed photographs of past students on the walls, some smiling, some faded with time. A coat rack still leaned precariously in the corner like it always had. Nothing had changed—and yet everything had.

He guided you slowly down the hall with an ease born not just of psychic ability but of genuine care. The lounge was empty, lit only by the crackling fire. You sank into the armchair closest to the warmth, hands still trembling.

Professor remained nearby, watching you—not with suspicion, not with judgment, but with a kind of paternal protectiveness.

“Whatever happened out there,” he said, “whatever darkness you walked through… it doesn’t define you.”