Chapter 3 — Echoes of the Wayne Family Home

Lydia

The Wayne family home greeted me as it always had—like an old friend whose embrace was warm but weighted by shared history. The familiar scent of fresh coffee mingled with faint wood polish, both grounding and intrusive, pressing against my senses. After the emotional whirlwind of the afternoon—Charlie’s bookstore, the Polaroid, Silas—it was almost too much to bear. This house, with its quiet corners and its layered silences, carried its own set of burdens.

My hand hovered over the brass doorknob at the entrance, the cool metal grounding me for a moment. I could hear the faint hum of the air conditioning inside, a monotone backdrop to the stillness waiting beyond the door. The living room sat just off to the left, exactly as I had left it years ago—a time capsule of mismatched furniture, sagging cushions, and the afghan draped over the couch like a relic of simpler days. Family photos lined the mantel, glossy surfaces catching the muted light, their faces daring me to look closer.

I stepped inside, my gaze sliding over the room as though I were a stranger trespassing in someone else’s life. The house seemed to press inward, its walls alive with expectations I wasn’t ready to meet. I let my bag slip from my shoulder, the thud of it against the floor breaking the fragile silence.

“Finally decided to show up?”

Leo’s voice cut through the quiet, sharp yet familiar, halting my movement. I turned toward the kitchen doorway, where he stood leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. His broad shoulders filled the space, his flannel shirt rumpled and sleeves rolled to his elbows. His dark eyes, ever discerning, scanned me with a look I knew too well—half concern, half interrogation.

“Hello to you too, Leo,” I said, forcing a note of casual ease into my voice. I smoothed the strap of my bag, as though the motion could shield me from the conversation I could feel brewing.

He stayed where he was, but his posture didn’t soften. “Dad said you were with Charlie earlier.”

“I was.”

“And?”

“And what?”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked older than his years, wearied by the weight of his own questions. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine.” The words came out too quickly, too flat.

“Fine,” he repeated, skepticism lacing the single syllable. He pushed off the doorframe and slid his hands into his jean pockets, though the sharpness in his gaze remained. “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know.”

“I’m not pretending,” I said, keeping my tone even, though the effort made my throat feel tight.

For a moment, something softened in his expression, a flicker of the brother who used to let me crawl onto his lap after a bad dream. But then it was gone, replaced by that familiar protective edge. “You’ve been back, what, two days? And already you’re running yourself in circles. First Charlie’s bookstore, now here. Is it... him?”

He didn’t say Silas’s name, but he didn’t have to. It hung there between us, heavy and suffocating.

“What do you want me to say, Leo?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest like armor. I could feel the weight of the Polaroid still pressing against me, its image burned into my memory.

He stepped into the room, his hands still in his pockets, his presence filling the space. “I want you to say you’re ready. That this isn’t going to tear you apart again. Because if you’re not, Lyd, you shouldn’t be here.”

His words stung, though I knew they weren’t meant to wound. Leo had always taken his role as the protector seriously, stepping into the void our mother left behind. But his protectiveness often clashed with my need to prove my independence. This moment was no different.

“I’m not here for him,” I said firmly, though my voice wavered under his scrutiny. “I’m here for Charlie. For her wedding. That’s it.”

“Yeah?” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Then why are you walking around with that look on your face, like the sky’s about to fall?”

I swallowed hard, searching for a response that would satisfy him while keeping my walls intact. “I’m just... tired, Leo. That’s all.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, the motion drawing my attention to the tension in his shoulders. “You throw yourself into something—anything—to avoid dealing with what’s really going on. Lyd, I’ve seen this before. It’s not just about Charlie’s wedding.”

“And what is it about, Leo?” I shot back, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Go on. Enlighten me.”

His frown deepened, the lines on his face etched by something deeper than anger. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, more raw. “It’s about you being back here, in the same town, in the same house, with all the same ghosts. And let’s not pretend that running into Silas is some impossible scenario. It’s not if, Lydia. It’s when.”

The truth of his words hit hard, though I hated to admit it. The Polaroid had already cracked the fragile distance I’d tried to maintain between myself and my past. And now Leo was forcing me to confront the reality I was struggling to avoid.

“I know,” I said quietly, my voice barely audible. “But this isn’t about him. This is about me... trying to figure out who I am without everything else hanging over me.”

Leo stopped, his gaze fixed on me as though searching for a fracture in my resolve. “I get that,” he said finally, his voice softer now. “But you can’t blame me for not wanting to see you get hurt all over again.”

“I’m not asking you to see it,” I said, meeting his gaze with more strength than I felt. “I’m asking you to trust me to handle it. On my terms.”

He studied me for a long moment, his jaw tight. I could see the war in his expression—his instinct to protect clashing with the knowledge that I’d grown beyond his reach. Finally, he exhaled, the fight leaving his shoulders.

“Fine,” he said, though his tone told me it wasn’t easy for him. “But promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“If he shows up—if he so much as looks at you the wrong way—you tell me. You don’t handle that alone.”

I hesitated, knowing the promise wasn’t one I would easily keep. But I nodded anyway. “Okay. I promise.”

He lingered for a moment longer, his gaze still heavy with unspoken words, before he turned back toward the kitchen. “Dad made chili for dinner. It’s probably still hot.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” I said softly.

When he disappeared down the hallway, the room seemed to expand slightly, as though his presence had squeezed the air from it. I sank onto the couch, its cushions sagging under my weight, and let myself glance at the photos on the mantel. My eyes caught on one in particular—a picture of me and Leo as kids, dirt smudged on our faces from some long-forgotten backyard adventure. I smiled faintly, the memory tugging at me with a bittersweet ache.

Reaching into my bag, I pulled out my camera. The worn leather strap felt rough against my fingers, its weight both familiar and foreign. For a moment, I considered lifting it, framing the room through the lens. But the thought of capturing the moment, solidifying it, was too much. The camera rested in my lap instead, its presence a quiet reminder of the person I used to be and the person I was still trying to become.

The house seemed to exhale around me, the stillness settling back in like an old habit. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the faint clatter of dishes, life continuing on even in the midst of my storm. I closed my eyes and let the hum of the air conditioning wash over me, the weight of the day finally catching up.

There would be time for everything else later. For now, all I could do was breathe.