Page 149 of The Threads Between

My body remembered before my mind caught up.

My arms lifted slowly, uncertain, hovering for one fragile second before tightening around her as something inside me split wide open all over again.

She's here. She's real. She's alive.

She made a soft sound and squeezed me closer, one hand coming up to cradle the back of my head the way she used to when I was small, when nightmares sent me stumbling into her room in the dark.

“Oh, honey,” she whispered.

I pressed my face into her shoulder, breathing her in like oxygen, like proof, like if I stopped, she might dissolve into memory again.

My mother pulled back just enough to see my face, thumbs brushing away tears I hadn't realized were still falling.

“You look exhausted,” she said gently. “Have you been sleeping at all?”

No.

Not since I watched the man I loved disappear into another century.

Not since his hand slipped from mine. Not since the world split open and left me on the wrong side of it.

“I've been working too much,” I said instead, my voice thin and brittle. “Deadlines.”

Her expression softened with immediate sympathy. “You always push yourself too hard.”

If only that were all it had been.

Her fingers moved to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture so achingly familiar my throat burned.

“You're home now,” she said softly. “That's what matters.”

Home. The word landed somewhere deep and tender, a place that had been nothing but scar tissue for so long I had forgotten it was still alive.

I nodded because I couldn't trust myself to speak.

Behind her, my sister hovered with poorly disguised impatience, shifting from foot to foot like she might combust if ignored much longer.

“Okay, wow,” she said finally. “This is officially the longest hug in recorded history. Should I leave the room? Light candles? Play violin music?”

A strangled sound escaped me, not quite a laugh, not quite a sob.

Mum shot her a look. “Miya.”

“What? I'm just saying. If she starts crying harder I'm going to cry, and then Dad will panic, and then dinner will burn, and then we'll all starve.”

“I do not panic,” Dad said from the doorway.

“You absolutely panic,” she shot back. “You panic-buy pastries.”

“That was one time.”

“Three times.”

Despite everything, a thin ribbon of laughter slipped through the tightness in my chest. It was fragile, like testing weight on a cracked floor, but it held.

Miya's expression softened instantly when she heard it. Not pitying. Not careful. Just relieved.

“There she is,” she said quietly. “I was starting to think dissertation stress had replaced you with a pod person.”