Crossing worlds always left a bad taste in my mouth.

  No pain. No flash of light. Just the uncomfortable feeling of being where I wasn’t supposed to be anymore. Magic bled out of the air until there was nothing left but concrete, noise, and gravity doing what it always did.

  Streetlights buzzed. Cars passed. Someone laughed somewhere nearby.

  Normal.

  I followed streets I hadn’t walked in years, letting muscle memory guide me. Familiar turns. Cracked sidewalks. A convenience store that had changed owners twice. Everything felt smaller than I remembered. Or maybe I’d just grown heavier inside.

  The house stood at the end of the block.

  Unchanged.

  Same fence. Same porch light, still slightly crooked. I stopped across the street, hands in my pockets, staring longer than necessary.

  I crossed anyway.

  The porch creaked.

  The door opened before I could knock.

  My mother froze.

  Her eyes widened, locked onto me like she’d forgotten how to blink.

  “…Miro?”

  I nodded once. “Hey, Mom.”

  She crossed the distance in three steps and pulled me into a hug strong enough to knock the air out of me.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “You’re real,” she whispered. “You’re actually here.”

  “Last I checked.”

  She pulled back just enough to look at my face, hands on my shoulders, scanning me like I might fall apart if she looked away.

  “You’ve been gone,” she said quietly. “For a long time.”

  “I know.”

  “You didn’t call. You didn’t write. You just… disappeared.”

  “I’m really bad at staying in touch.”

  That earned me a small, shaky laugh.

  She stepped aside. “Come in before you catch something.”

  The house smelled the same. Clean. Warm. Lived in.

  From somewhere deeper inside, a familiar sound drifted out.

  Rapid button clicks. A muffled shout. Something about “lag” and “unbalanced mechanics.”

  I blinked.

  “…By the way,” I asked, glancing down the hallway, “where’s dad?”

  She didn’t even hesitate.

  “Where he always is.”

  Right on cue, the shouting intensified.

  “I SAID I NEED FIVE MINUTES, I’M IN A MATCH.”

  Something thumped. Something else fell over. A long, heartfelt complaint followed.

  I winced. “He hasn’t changed.”

  “Not even a little,” she said. “He eats. He sleeps. He argues with screens.”

  The shouting escalated. Something crashed. The voice cursed passionately at an unseen enemy.

  She rubbed her temples. “If the world ever ends, it’ll be because he refused to pause.”

  I snorted before I could stop myself.

  She looked at me, really looked at me this time.

  “You’re the same,” she said softly. “And you’re not.”

  I didn’t argue.

  She poured tea, movements automatic, then sat across from me at the table.

  “You were always distant,” she continued. “Even when you were here. Watching things no one else noticed.”

  I stared into my cup.

  “After you left,” she said, “the house got quieter. Even with all that noise.” She nodded toward the shouting room. “You always balanced it out.”

  “I didn’t mean to disappear,” I said quietly.

  “I know.”

  She reached across the table and rested her hand over mine.

  “You don’t run because you hate this place,” she said. “You run because staying hurts more than leaving.”

  The yelling suddenly stopped.

  A head peeked around the corner. Messy hair. Headset crooked. Eyes wide.

  “…Miro?”

  I raised a hand. “Hey.”

  He stared. Then nodded once. “Cool. You’re back. Don’t touch my stuff.”

  Then he vanished back into the room.

  The shouting resumed immediately.

  I stared at the doorway.

  My mother sighed. “That was his version of excitement.”

  I leaned back slightly.

  For the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel like moving.