The moment we stepped inside, the familiar scent of wood polish and something faintly citrusy wrapped around me like a memory.
Nothing had changed. Same crooked frame on the wall, same patch of sun-bleached carpet by the window.
Even the little ceramic Virgin Mary on the shelf, next to the small wooden cross, tilted slightly forward like she'd been leaning in to listen all these years. I smiled, surprised she hadn't toppled off by now.
My dad shut the door behind us with a soft grunt and set my suitcase down with a thud.
My stomach chose that exact moment to growl—loudly.
He raised a brow. "Hungry?"
I nodded sheepishly, already moving toward the kitchen.
"I haven't eaten properly in like...days. No, weeks," I admitted.
I yanked the fridge open, and it was fully stocked. A sharp contrast to mine which usually held an unopened bottle of wine and a single piece of fruit.
A half-eaten pie on the second shelf caught my eye, and I snatched it.
The crust was a little soggy, the apples translucent—but it didn't matter.
I dug in, taking huge spoonfuls. Barely chewing. Mostly swallowing.
My dad leaned on the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching me with that slow-building, silent smile only a dad could wear. A mix of judgment and pride.
"You know," he said, "most folks reheat pie."
I shoved another spoonful in. "Mmfine," I mumbled.
He chuckled and said nothing more.
I scraped the plate clean soon enough, then let out a satisfied sigh. "Okay. I'm saved."
"Oh yeah?"
I nodded, wiping the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. "Yep. That pie just added ten years to my lifespan."
"You don't say," he said dryly, a trait he passed on to me.
My dad nodded toward the hallway. "Go on. Get some rest. Use my room—yours is probably packed with dust so I'll clean it out."
I gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to my chest. "No, Papa, I can't bear to see you stress like that."
He stared at me, deadpan.
I was already halfway down the hall, kicking off my Crocs one after the other.
He scoffed behind me, but I heard the smile in it.
"Drama queen," he muttered.
I turned back just enough to flash him a grin.
The room smelled the same. That faint cedar scent, like old wood and sunlight and time. I inhaled it deeply, flopped face-first onto the bed, and melted into the mattress like it was some kind of memory-foam cloud.
I was out faster than a blink.
If felt like only a few minutes passed before a loud yell jolted me upright.
My heart jumped to my throat as I blinked into darkness, disoriented. I sat up slowly, groggy and stiff, rubbing my eyes and for a terrifying second, I thought I'd gone blind.
Then the bedside lamp flickered on, casting a soft yellow glow across the room.
Nope. Not blind. Just… night.
Night?
I squinted at the window. The sky was deep navy, almost black. Crickets chirped lazily outside. The house was still, except for another yell from the kitchen.
"Yareli," Dad's voice rang out. "You alive in there, or should I start planning the funeral?"
I shuffled into the hallway, hair wild, shirt wrinkled, the very picture of someone who had no idea where she was or what century she was in.
"What time is it?" I asked, still rubbing my face.
"7:43." He answered, not yet looking at me.
Seven what?
Wait—
I did some quick, fuzzy math in my head and stopped mid-step.
I slept for eight hours. Eight whole hours.
Uninterrupted.
The last time I had such privilege, I was six.
No—four.
Dad glanced up from the stove as I entered the kitchen, spatula in one hand, the same disbelieving smirk on his face. "Even Sleeping Beauty wasn't out this long."
I slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, still mildly offended by how good it felt to sleep that long.
"I think I dreamed of the afterlife."
He shrugged. "Seemed like you were training for it."
The smell of garlic and something tomatoey hit my nose, and my stomach rumbled for the umpteenth time that day.
I croaked, head dropping to the table. "What are you making?"
He just turned back to the pan. "You'll see."
"Ooh, mystery."
He hummed while he cooked, something old and country that probably came with the farm. I stayed slouched over the table, letting the sounds and smells wrap around me like a blanket.
When he finally turned off the stove, he plated up whatever magic he'd made and slid a dish in front of me.
It looked like pasta, but heartier. Chunky sauce, mushrooms, maybe ground beef, topped with crispy little bits of something golden. Garlic bread sat on the side, slightly burnt at the corners.
I perked up. "Thank you, chef Job."
He nodded smiling, grabbing his own plate and sitting across from me.
We ate in comfortable silence.
My dad didn't rush through his food—he never had. Every bite was slow and deliberate, like he was actually taking the time to enjoy it.
I, on the other hand, was inhaling mine like someone was about to snatch the plate.
Halfway through, he took a sip of water and said, without looking up, "So, how come you have the luxury of coming to visit your old man?"
I slowed down, twirled a strand of pasta around my fork, then twirled it the other way.
"I'm on vacation," I said.
He snorted softly. "You don't say. Self approved I assume"
"Harsh. I earned it," I exclaimed.
"Do tell."
I sighed. " Well, work's been a lot. I mean, a whole lot. Mario was out of the country for quite a while and I had to stand in for him. It was exhausting but I earned a month break, so yay."
I glanced up at my dad. His face didn't change, but his eyes softened. He reached across the table, laid his calloused hand gently over mine.
"You've always pushed hard, even as a kid," he said. "You did good coming home."
I looked down at our hands, and felt something in my chest loosen.
•••