The Palmer house is loud. It always was. But it’s louder now. Screaming through the walls. Toys scattered across the yard like someone shook the house upside-down.

She doesn't knock.

The door's unlocked anyway, because of course it is. Inside, it smells like beer and sour milk and cheap candles trying to cover it all up. Vicky’s voice is already yelling from somewhere in the back, something about a broken vase and “who the hell left that there.” Van freezes. It’s her voice, the one from her dreams. The one that haunted her out in the woods more than the cold or the hunger or the blood ever did.

She’s back in hell.

Someone notices her, Vivienne, standing in the kitchen doorway, holding a baby on one hip and a stained dish towel in her other hand. Her face freezes like it’s been struck.

“Van?” Vivienne breathes.

The baby looks up, blinking slow and confused. Van stares. She doesn’t even know this kid. Round face. Pink pajamas. Sippy cup clutched like it’s a life preserver.

“Who the hell is that?” Vicky’s voice barks from the hallway. She walks in, barefoot, cigarette dangling from her mouth, beer in hand. Her hair’s thinner. Skin sallow. Still mean as ever.

“Vanessa?” she squints. “You finally decided to come back? Jesus Christ. Thought you'd turned into bear shit or something.”

Van doesn’t answer. She doesn’t look at her mother. She’s looking at the baby.

Vivienne shifts her weight uncomfortably. “That’s Violet. You missed… a lot.”

Van doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches the baby, who stares back and makes a warbly sound like a broken wind-up toy.

The living room’s chaos. Couch cushions everywhere. Dirty dishes on the floor. One of the boys, Victor, probably, runs through half-dressed, chasing Vance and Vincent, who’s just screaming high-pitched sounds and slapping the air with his hands. They all barrel past Van like she’s invisible.

“Vincent! Jesus Christ!” Vivienne yells after them, trying to juggle the baby without dropping the towel. “Put pants on, for God’s sake!”

She glances around. The couch, the one that used to be her bed before the woods, is still there, flatter and dirtier. Same duct tape on the armrest. Same sag in the middle where she used to curl up and stare at the ceiling, trying not to hear the fights or the crying or the broken glass.

There’s yelling upstairs. Amelia, probably, telling one of the boys to get out of the girls' room. Then slamming.

Vivienne sighs like she’s aged five years since Van last saw her. She tries to bounce Violet, who starts to fuss. “We weren’t sure you were alive,” she says, voice quieter now. “Dad came by on Vincent’s birthday last month. Gave him a bike, then left again. Thought maybe he'd check in when the news hit. But…”

Of course he didn’t.

Van doesn’t ask if they looked for her. She knows the answer.

Vicky lights another cigarette. “Well, if you’re gonna stand there like a ghost, at least grab a damn bottle and help. You’re not special just ‘cause you didn’t die out there.”

Vivienne winces at that. But doesn’t argue.

Van doesn’t say anything.

She walks past them. Into the hallway. Past the pictures on the wall that haven’t been updated since Victor was a toddler. Into the bathroom, closes the door. Locks it. Sits on the edge of the tub and breathes like she’s still out in the trees, watching for wolves.

Everything’s loud. Everything’s wrong.

Violet’s cry pierces through the wall. Someone yells. Something crashes.

She presses her palms into her eyes, and for a second, she sees the fire again. Jackie’s frozen face. The plane. The blood.

She's not ready for this.

But she’s here.

And she’s the oldest. Again.

Only this time, she doesn’t feel like the girl who left.