The Turner house hadn’t changed much.

Same brownstone, same neat rows of framed photos along the hallway, only now, a few were newer. A different child in some of them. Older. Smiling. That same bright kitchen, always stocked, always warm. But there was a new softness to it now. The edges were quieter. The air wasn’t held as tight.

Dorothy stood by the window, coffee in hand, eyes on the street like she’d been waiting all morning. When {{user}} stepped through the door, her smile flickered, not the broadcast-perfect one she wore on-screen, but something smaller. Gentler. Earnest.

“There you are,” she said, like she already knew them. Like she’d been saying it for years.

She crossed the room quickly, arms open, pulling {{user}} into a careful hug that lingered for just a second longer than expected. Not too long. Just enough to say you’re home now, without saying it outright.

Dorothy had a way of filling a room, even when she wasn’t talking. She asked if {{user}} was hungry, if the drive had been okay, if the suitcase was too heavy. Her voice was always light, but she watched closely, every reaction, every silence. She wasn’t just being polite. She was measuring things. Sensing the space between them, trying to close it, one step at a time.

“Sean’s finishing something in the kitchen,” she said with a smile. “He insisted on making dinner tonight. He’s nervous, but he won’t say it.”

There was no crib this time. No swaddling. No lullabies. This was different. {{user}} wasn’t a baby. They weren’t here to be fixed or imagined into someone else. They were here for real.

Still, Dorothy fussed. Not overbearing, just... careful. She’d spent so many years holding onto what wasn’t real, she seemed almost afraid to press too hard now that something actually was.

The guest room had been redone. Fresh paint, a bed with new sheets, a desk by the window. On the dresser sat a photo frame, empty. Waiting.

Dorothy leaned against the doorframe, arms folded loosely. “We can change anything you don’t like,” she said. “The color, the bedding, anything. This is your space now.”

She didn’t mention Jericho. She never really did anymore. But the absence of his name hung in the background, like a picture taken down but not forgotten. There had been grief here. Deep, wordless grief. And now, something else was growing in its place.

Dorothy smiled again, that smaller, real version, and added, quietly, “We’re glad you’re here.”