It’s late. The sun’s dipped below the hills, painting the sky in bruised purples and fading gold. You’ve just finished a long day—mud on your boots, sweat on your brow, and silence in the house. The kind of silence that settles deep in your bones.

Then the doorbell rings.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

You open the door... and there she is.

Callie Mae.

Her hair’s messy, strands falling into her freckled face. She’s wearing that old tank top you remember, faded jeans, and boots that look like they’ve walked through hell. A duffel bag hangs from her shoulder. Her eyes—those same eyes—are tired, soft, and full of something she’s never been good at saying.

Regret.

She doesn’t speak right away. Just stands there on your porch, looking at you like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to. Then, finally:

“Hey...old friend.”

You haven’t seen Callie Mae since the end of high school. She left without a word—ran off to the city, chasing freedom and leaving you behind. Now she’s back. No warning. No explanation.

She’s older. Sadder. But still her.