Chapter 2 — Return to Willow Creek

Emma

The train rattled to a stop with a metallic groan, its whistle echoing through the quiet valley. Emma Calloway stepped onto the platform, her sharp heels clicking against the worn wooden planks. The air smelled different here—cleaner, tinged with the faint scent of pine and earth, a far cry from the exhaust fumes and pavement of the city. She adjusted the strap of her leather tote bag, her polished exterior at odds with the small-town train station around her.

The station was little more than a weathered building with a peeling sign that read "Willow Creek." A single bench sagged under the weight of time, and a few sparrows flitted around a rusted lamppost. Emma’s eyes lingered on the faded lettering as a pang of nostalgia mixed with unease settled in her chest. She tightened her grip on the tote bag, a reflex she hadn’t realized had become second nature. The train hissed and rumbled as it pulled away, leaving her alone in the stillness.

She scanned the parking lot and spotted a lone car idling under the shade of a maple tree. The driver’s side door opened, and Aunt Marilyn stepped out, waving hesitantly. Emma hesitated for a fraction of a second before lifting her hand in return, forcing a smile.

Marilyn hadn’t changed much—or so it seemed at first glance. Same practical haircut, same kind but tired blue eyes, same floral-patterned blouse that looked like it had seen one too many washes. But as Emma approached, she noticed the deeper lines around her aunt’s eyes, the slight stoop in her shoulders. It was subtle, but it was there—the weight of years and responsibilities quietly etched into her frame.

“Emma,” Marilyn said warmly as her niece finally reached her, her voice carrying that familiar blend of affection and worry. “You look… well.”

“You too,” Emma replied, though the words felt hollow. She could see the changes now, the toll the years had taken.

Marilyn pulled her into an embrace that smelled of lavender and flour, a scent that instantly transported Emma back to her childhood. For a moment, she let herself relax into the warmth of it, but the tension returned as soon as they pulled apart.

“Let’s get you home,” Marilyn said, her voice soft but steady.

The drive to the Calloway family home was short but uncomfortably quiet. Emma sat stiffly in the passenger seat, her tote bag clutched tightly in her lap. The town passed by in snapshots, each scene tugging at her memory. The hardware store still stood, though its sun-faded sign looked even more weathered. The boutique had hand-painted window decorations advertising a sale, and kids rode bicycles down Main Street, their laughter carrying through the open car window.

But not everything had stayed the same. The bookstore her grandmother used to frequent was shuttered, its windows dark and empty. The cobblestone square had a crack running through it, as though the town’s foundation itself was showing signs of strain. Emma’s eyes caught the faded sign for the Calloway Café as they turned a corner. She couldn’t help but notice how the sagging awning and peeling paint failed to capture the warmth and charm the café once radiated. Her marketing instincts kicked in unbidden, mentally cataloging the ways a fresh coat of paint and better signage could make a difference.

“So,” Marilyn began, glancing sideways at Emma as the silence stretched too long. “How was the trip?”

“Fine,” Emma replied curtly, her tone sharper than she intended.

Marilyn hesitated, then tried again. “I made up your old room. It’s not much, but I thought you’d appreciate the familiarity.”

“That’s… nice. Thanks.”

The conversation stalled again, leaving only the hum of the engine and the occasional crunch of gravel under the tires. Emma stared out the window, her sharp green eyes catching glimpses of her past in every corner. The bench by the square where she’d waited for the school bus. The library steps where she’d sat reading during long summer afternoons. The small stone bridge that had been the backdrop of countless family photos.

And then, finally, the house came into view.

The Calloway family home stood on the outskirts of town, its wraparound porch and overgrown garden a testament to its age and neglect. Once a proud Victorian with pristine white paint and neatly trimmed hedges, it now looked tired. The paint was peeling, the porch steps sagged, and the garden had been overtaken by lavender and wild roses that spilled out onto the gravel driveway.

“I know it’s not what it used to be,” Marilyn said as she parked the car, her voice tinged with regret. “But it’s still standing. That counts for something, right?”

Emma swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. “Right.”

Inside, the house was a time capsule. The scent of old wood and something faintly sweet greeted Emma as she stepped through the door. The wallpaper—once vibrant—had faded to muted hues, and the furniture bore the unmistakable patina of years gone by. A creaky staircase led to the bedrooms, and the familiar hum of the grandfather clock in the hallway filled the quiet space.

“It’s just you and me now,” Marilyn said as she closed the door behind them. “Well, and Caleb at the café, of course.”

Emma set her tote bag down by the staircase, her eyes scanning the room. The house was filled with memories—Christmas mornings by the fireplace, rainy afternoons baking cookies with her grandmother, evenings listening to her aunt’s stories about the town. And yet, those memories felt distant, as if they belonged to someone else.

“Marilyn,” Emma began, her tone hesitant, “I really appreciate you letting me stay here. I know things have been… busy for you.”

Her aunt waved a dismissive hand. “You’re family, Emma. This is your home too, no matter how long it’s been.”

Emma bit her lip, guilt gnawing at her. She had stayed away for so long, too consumed by her career and city life to visit, even after her grandmother’s passing. Now, she was back, but not for the reasons she should have been.

“Come on,” Marilyn said, gesturing toward the kitchen. “I made some tea.”

The kitchen was as Emma remembered it—cozy and cluttered, with a mismatched set of chairs around the table and a vase of wilting daisies on the counter. A tray of biscuits sat next to the teapot, their golden edges slightly burnt.

Marilyn poured the tea and sat across from Emma, her hands cupping her mug. She hesitated for a moment before speaking. “You know, things haven’t been easy at the café lately.”

Emma’s stomach tightened. “How bad is it?”

“Bad,” Marilyn admitted, her voice heavy with weariness. “We’ve lost a lot of regulars over the years. And now, with Victoria Chen opening that new place in town…”

Emma frowned. “Victoria who?”

“Victoria Chen. She’s started a café franchise—sleek, modern, lots of bells and whistles. It’s drawing people in, especially the younger crowd. We just can’t compete with that kind of budget.”

Emma leaned back in her chair, her mind already racing. Marketing strategies, branding, community engagement—these were the things she was good at. She could help. Maybe.

“I want to see it,” she said finally.

“The café?” Marilyn asked, her brow furrowing.

Emma nodded. “Tomorrow. First thing.”

Marilyn hesitated, then smiled faintly. “Your grandmother would have been glad to see you taking an interest.”

Emma’s throat tightened at the mention of her grandmother. She glanced down at her mug, her reflection rippling in the amber liquid. “She deserved better from me,” she said softly.

“She understood,” Marilyn said gently. “She always did.”

Emma wasn’t sure she believed that, but she didn’t argue.

Upstairs, in the quiet of her old bedroom, Emma unpacked her things. The room was almost exactly as she had left it—faded posters on the walls, a stuffed bear sitting on the dresser, a stack of forgotten books on the shelf. It felt like stepping into a time warp, and yet, she was acutely aware of how much had changed.

As she sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes fell on a small jewelry box on the nightstand. She opened it carefully, her breath catching as she saw the Willow Creek Pendant nestled inside. The teardrop-shaped silver necklace encased a pressed wildflower, pale blue and delicate.

She hadn’t thought about this pendant in years, but now, holding it in her hand, memories flooded back—her grandmother’s laughter, her warm hugs, the walks they used to take along Willow Creek Trail. Her grandmother had given it to her during one of their last walks together, saying it was a reminder that even the smallest things could hold beauty and strength.

Emma closed her fingers around the pendant, a quiet resolve settling over her. She hadn’t come back to Willow Creek just to escape. She had come back to make things right.

Tomorrow, she would face the café. And maybe, just maybe, she would find a way to save it—and herself—in the process.