Skies & Florets

Chapter 15

QUENTIN

The late afternoon sun is warm on my back as I step out of my car, gravel crunching beneath my feet in an almost unsettling quiet. This neighborhood, once so familiar, now feels foreign, like a place I've wandered into by accident. I stare at the house in front of me—Lilac's old house—and the w a v e of nostalgia hits me so hard that I have to take a moment to steady myself.

It's smaller than I remember. Or maybe I'm just seeing it with new eyes, older eyes.

The once-vibrant white paint has faded, peeling off in several places. The picket fence that used to run along the edge of the yard is still there, but it's sagging now, leaning like it's too tired to stand up straight. The front yard, once alive with bright flowers and lush grass, is now a tangled mess of weeds. The rose bushes Lilac's mother had loved so much are nothing more than overgrown thickets, their blossoms long gone.

The house itself seems to have lost its warmth, like the life has been drained out of it. There's a "For Sale" sign lying crooked in the front yard, its colors faded from the sun, barely clinging to the rusty post. The windows are dark, their curtains drawn tightly shut, as though hiding the emptiness inside.

I can almost see Lilac's younger self running through the garden, her laughter ringing in the air as she chased butterflies with that e n d l e s s energy of hers. Back then, this place had felt alive, as if it pulsed with the r h y t h m of her joy.

Now, it's just. . . v a c a n t. It feels like a shell of what it once was, a hollow memory of happier days.

I stand there for what feels like forever, staring at the house. A deep sigh escapes my lips as I try to reconcile the image in my head with the reality in front of me. I thought coming here would bring me some kind of closure, maybe some comfort after everything that's happened. But all it's done is remind me of what's been lost.

Of how much time has passed.

I take a few steps closer, my eyes scanning the yard.

There's a faint outline in the grass, a patch where a small garden must have been. I remember how Lilac and her mother used to spend hours tending to that garden, planting flowers that bloomed in b u r s t s of color—daisies, lilies, tulips. I can practically smell the scent of the fresh earth and the flowers, mixed with the faint perfume Lilac's mother always wore.

But now, all that's left is the overgrown grass and a few stubborn weeds. The lavender Lilac loved so much the ones she used to tuck behind her ear or press between the pages of her books, are long gone.

I take another deep breath, trying to shake off the heaviness that settles over me. I had hoped to find her here. To s e e her again. After all these years, I thought I could come back and maybe—just maybe—find some piece of the past that I could hold onto.