Wild Hearts

Chapter One

As I step out of the taxi, the crunch of gravel under my heels feels alien compared to the smooth pavement I am used to. The scent of freshly cut hay and the earthy aroma of manure mix with the salty tang of the nearby sea, a stark contrast to the crisp, clean air of the city. My father barely glances up, a brief flicker of recognition crossing his face before he returns to his task, his calloused hands working the old, rusted tools that are a far cry from the sleek gadgets of urban life.

Leaving this place behind had been an easy choice; the city's blinding lights, constant noise, and endless diversions have wrapped themselves around me, pulling me further from this life's simplicity. As the uber driver drops my suitcases to the ground, their weight feels heavier—a tangible reminder of the distance I have placed between myself and this world. I check my phone, and a wave of frustration hits me when I see there is no service. The distant crow of a rooster and the low mooing of cows tug me back to the present, serving as a reminder that convenience is a luxury I no longer have. I hand the driver his tip, and my father approaches, his steps measured and deliberate.

"Welcome home, Julia," my father says, his voice gruff yet softened by an emotion I cannot quite place. He pulls me into a hug—his embrace both familiar and unsettling, like holding onto a memory that does not fit quite right anymore. His arms are strong, yet there is an awkwardness in the way he holds me, a reminder of how much time has passed, of the man I once knew and the stranger he has become. I stand stiffly for a moment before easing into it, unsure whether this hug is meant to bridge the gap between us or merely acknowledge it.

Standing in the shadow of the old house, a wave of discomfort hits me. The peeling paint, sagging porch, and faint smell of mildew are all reminders of a life I have long abandoned. My father does not meet my eyes—his silence speaks louder than any words could. He has always seen me as spoiled, shaped by the glittering façade of luxury and the hollow praise of social media. His judgment lingers in the air, palpable in the way he moves around me, careful to keep a distance. The gap between us is not just physical; it is the product of years of strained conversations, unmet expectations, and the widening gulf of misunderstanding. I hate being back here, but it is clear he resents my return just as much.

He walks into the house, and I follow him up the narrow, creaky stairs, each step stirring up old memories I thought I had buried. The sound of the wooden boards groaning beneath our weight feels familiar yet foreign, like a distant echo of a life I no longer recognize. The walls seem to close in around me, their peeling wallpaper holding secrets from a simpler time—one I am not sure I want to return to.

When we reach the top, my father pauses at the door to my old room, pushing it open with a soft creak. I hesitate before stepping inside, unsure of what to expect. But the moment I cross the threshold, it is like walking straight into a time capsule. Nothing has changed.

The twin bed with its faded floral quilt still sits in the corner, neatly made as if I had just left it moments ago. The quilt itself, worn and soft from years of use, carries the faint scent of lavender, the same fragrance my mother used to tuck into my pillowcases when I was a child. My wooden dresser stands against the wall, every drawer closed, its surface smooth and polished, holding the trinkets and keepsakes I once thought were the most important things in the world.

My eyes land on the bookshelf, and I feel a strange tightening in my chest. It is still filled with the books I used to escape into, the stuffed animals that once comforted me, and the trophies from long-forgotten school achievements. A few toys are scattered here and there, untouched by time, perfectly preserved like relics of a girl I no longer recognize.

Someone must have kept this room clean, because there is not a speck of dust anywhere. Not a single thing is out of place, as if they were waiting for me to come back, frozen in time. The sight stirs something deep inside me, a strange mix of nostalgia and discomfort.