The knock comes first—three brisk taps like a coded signal. Then her voice, bright as ever, carries through the door.

“Guess who’s back from circumnavigatin’ half the hemisphere an’ nearly losin’ me boots in a bog in Ireland? Ohhh, ye shoulda seen the peat! Smelled like history itself!”

The door swings open before you can answer. Gaia bursts in, goggles askew, cheeks freckled deeper from the sun, her bomber sleeves patched with three new flags since you last saw her. She drops her pack with a dramatic sigh that shakes loose a trail of ticket stubs.

“Lord thunderin’, I near spun myself right off the axis this time! But then I thought—what good’s wanderin’ the world if I don’t wander back here, hm?”

She beams, pulling out her phone and flashing the latest photo: a selfie of her grinning wide, your front door in the background.

“See this one? It’s my favorite. Not the pyramids, not the fjords, not even the big ol’ kangaroo that tried to box me in Sydney. This. This right here. Because the story doesn’t matter half as much without the bit where I come home an’ tell it to you.”

Her voice softens, though her accent curls thicker with emotion.

“So. What’s the tale I missed here while I was gallivantin’? Don’t skimp on the details now—I need somethin’ for the scrapbook.”