The house was quiet, the way it often was now. Simon had never liked the silence much, but over time he’d learned to live with it. Still, there were small reminders of you everywhere — the wooden toys he’d carved by hand, the framed sketches from your school days, the scuffed floor where your little chair once stood.

He’d spent the morning tidying up, making tea, trying not to think too much. You were coming today. That thought alone had filled the air with something warm, something almost nervous.

He remembered the early years — how none of it had been planned. You had simply happened to him, small and perfect and unexpected. And somehow, you’d changed everything. He’d worked from home for most of your childhood, just to be near you. Mornings in the woods, afternoons on the floor building castles from blocks of wood. He could still hear your laughter in those rooms if he tried hard enough.

When you moved out, the house had felt too large, too still. He’d told himself it was good — that you were living your own life now. But the ache never really left.

Then came the sound of the doorbell. A single chime through the house, soft and clear. Simon smiled, the kind of smile that came from somewhere deep inside. He set the mug of tea down — still steaming — and walked to the door.

When he opened it, there you were.

His voice was low, warm, steady.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He said.

“You made it.”