The house was quieter than Clara remembered.
Not in a hollow, echoing way—but in the way a room falls still before something important is said. Even as she set her bag down by the stairs and took in the familiar creak of the floorboards, Clara could feel the shift. Things weren't tense anymore, just… cautious. Like everyone was holding their breath without realizing it.
Lena led her into the kitchen, the air smelling faintly of rosemary and something baking.
"I wasn't sure what time you'd get here," Lena said, fussing with mugs. "But I made scones earlier, and I thought we could have tea. Like old times, maybe."
Clara smiled gently. "I'd like that."
They moved through the motions slowly, like dancers learning new steps to an old rhythm. The kettle hissed and the mugs clinked softly. The scent of bergamot rose like memory between them. And when they finally sat at the table, it was with that strange combination of comfort and fragility that came from shared history.
They didn't speak at first.
Not because they didn't want to—but because they knew that once the silence broke, the truth would come tumbling through.
Clara took a sip of tea. Then she looked up, her gaze meeting Lena's across the table.
"I wasn't sure I'd come back," she said quietly.
Lena nodded, her throat tight. "I wasn't sure you would either."
Clara exhaled. "But I'm glad I did."
A beat passed. Then Lena leaned forward slightly, voice barely above a whisper. "What changed?"
Clara traced the rim of her cup with her fingertip, thinking. "Me, mostly. I stopped waiting for it to stop hurting. And I started trying to understand why it hurt in the first place."
Lena blinked, swallowing hard. "And did you?"
Clara gave a faint, sad smile. "Some of it. Not all. But enough to know that I miss you more than I'm angry. And that holding onto the pain was only keeping me away from the people I love."
Lena reached out, her hand resting lightly over Clara's. "I missed you, too. Every day."
The kitchen filled with a long silence. But it wasn't heavy.
It was sacred.
Later that evening, they made dinner together—nothing fancy, just pasta and garlic bread. Jace joined them, offering to set the table, his movements quiet and respectful, as if he knew how delicate this new harmony was.
Over dinner, the conversation stayed light. Movies. Music. A strange dream Jace had about getting chased by an angry goose, which made both sisters laugh for the first real time since Clara walked through the door.
There was still a shadow under the joy. But it wasn't suffocating.
Afterward, they sat in the living room, the dishes forgotten for now. Clara glanced at Lena and asked, "Do you still paint?"
Lena hesitated, then nodded. "Sometimes. It's different now. Calmer. I don't paint the storm anymore."
Clara tilted her head. "What do you paint?"
"Whatever's left after," Lena said, her voice quiet.
Clara nodded slowly. She understood.
And when she finally went to bed that night, slipping between the same sheets she had once thrown herself into with exhaustion or grief, she didn't feel like a stranger in her own room.
She felt like someone returning to herself—one small breath at a time.