"Hey, you came."
I called out from a few meters away.
She nodded, laughed in a way that made me smile. It was the kind of laugh that sounded more like a giggle and a taunt at the same time.
Jane and I walked side by side, our steps uneven against the pavement beneath our feet. Leaves crunched under our shoes every now and then, the sound sharp in the quiet evening.
The road connected to a small alley with houses distant from one another—yet close enough to carve a path. A few steps down, you have to turn right, where a tall house leaves just enough space for a person to pass through.
If you continued forward, there was a store to the left. But turning right led to a narrow cement path, with another small shop standing quietly at its end.
Walking to the right reaching the small store, leads you to the left with fences squeezed just enough for a motorcycle to enter, with enough space to make way for them.
Neither of us spoke.
But it wasn't uncomfortable.
It was the kind of silence that happens when two people aren't close enough to fill every moment with conversation, yet not strangers enough to feel awkward about it either.
We just walked, listening to the distant hum of voices ahead, growing clearer with each step.
The alley opened up before us, where the black cat used to stroll every morning.
Walking further, grass started to grow from the cracks in the pavement, leading to a path with uneven patches of grass and dirt, some areas trimmed short while others had grown wild and soft.
The houses here stood farther apart than those in the alley, their lights glowing in warm squares through windows.
At a small corner of the path stood my house.
It wasn't the biggest. The paint along the wooden walls had faded into uneven shades where rain had worn it down over the years. Near the porch, the floorboards creaked in certain spots if you stepped on them wrong, and the metal gate always let out a low, complaining squeal whenever it opened.
The house had been there long before I was
born.
Inside, you could still find things that didn't belong to us. A glass cabinet in the living room held porcelain plates no one ever used. A wooden clock above the doorway ticked louder than it should, its sound echoing through the house at night when everything else was quiet.
The carved initials at the bottom of the staircase weren't mine, nor my parents'. They had been etched there decades ago.
It once belonged to my father's grandmother.
When she passed away, the house was what he inherited. The money and most of the inheritance went to his sister instead.
We never talked about it much, but I had seen enough to understand. There were no angry arguments, no stories told with resentment.
Only a quiet pause whenever her name came up, followed by my father changing the subject without explanation.
He worked long hours every day, sitting in front of a glowing screen until his eyes turned red and tired. Sometimes he would come home late, loosen his tie slowly, and sit at the dining table without speaking for a while.
But no matter how tired he was, he was always there.
The dining table itself was small, barely large enough for all of us. One of its legs had to be supported by folded cardboard so it wouldn't wobble. The chairs didn't match, gathered from different times and places, yet every evening they were pulled close together.
Standing there at the end of the path, I could already hear familiar voices spilling out through the slightly open window.
Jane slowed beside me, her gaze resting on the worn gate, then on the warm light glowing from inside.
I reached out and pushed it open.
It squealed, just like it always did.
And for a moment, before stepping in, I realized that sound alone was enough to tell me I was home.
——————————————————
6:21 PM.
The porch was filled with guests.
Voices overlapped into a constant hum, rising and falling as people moved between tables. Someone laughed loudly near the food trays. A child ran past the gate, sandals slapping the pavement before another voice called them back.
The smell of dishes and sweet frosting hung thick in the warm evening air.
I wasn't sure whether people had come for me, or if they had simply thought of it as another occasion that they needed to attend.
Probably both.
My cousins were scattered among the guests. Some of the older ones stood near the tables in small groups, talking easily, their backs half-turned toward the rest of us. Every now and then, one of them glanced our way with a quick smile before returning to their conversation, as if we belonged to a different stage of life they had already moved past.
The younger ones were gathered near the steps. Their faces glowed pale blue from their screens, fingers moving quickly, shoulders hunched forward. None of them looked up when someone walked by. Their laughter came in short bursts, directed at whatever was happening inside their devices rather than anything around them.
I knew I should go over.
That was what older cousins were supposed to do—start the conversation, make the younger ones feel included.
I even took a small step forward.
Then stopped.
Watching them sit so completely absorbed, I realized I wouldn't know what to say. Anything I tried would probably interrupt them, pull them away from something they cared about more than a forced conversation with me.
So I stayed where I was.
It was easier to let the distance remain predictable than to risk stepping into something uncertain.
Before I could sink further into that thought, a voice cut clearly through the noise.
"Elle."
I stiffened.
The game host stood near the center of the yard, smiling broadly, one hand already lifted in my direction. Several people nearby turned to look, their attention following the line of that raised arm until it landed on me.
My stomach tightened.
I thought about shaking my head. Pretending I hadn't heard. Slipping behind someone taller and disappearing into the crowd.
But too many eyes were already on me, waiting.
I swallowed and turned instinctively, searching for one familiar face.
Jane.
Maybe she would interrupt somehow. Maybe she would give me a reason to step away without anyone noticing.
But she was already there.
Standing beside the circle of chairs.
She wasn't watching like the others. She had already been pulled into it. Her posture was straight, hands resting loosely at her sides, expression calm and unreadable. She didn't look excited or nervous. Just quietly prepared, as if she had accepted the situation the moment it began.
Seeing her standing there left me with no excuse to stay back.
So, I took a step forward.
The chairs were arranged in a tight circle, one seat missing compared to the number of players gathered around them. A portable speaker sat on the table nearby, already playing upbeat music.
Musical chairs.
A simple game everyone knew.
When the music played, we would walk in circles, pretending not to rush. When it stopped, everyone would scramble for a seat at once.
And someone would always be left standing.