Officer Martinez inclined his head toward me. “If there are any further issues, Miss Parker, don’t hesitate to call,” he said. “We have everything documented.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
As the patrol cars pulled away, their lights fading into the fog, I was left standing there with my suitcase, the gulls crying overhead, and my father watching me from the porch.
It felt like standing at a crossroads.
“Are you… staying?” he asked quietly.
I looked up at the large front windows and saw my own reflection faintly superimposed over long-ago memories: Mom waving from the door, younger me racing down the steps toward the sand, Dad carrying a cooler.
“Yeah,” I said. “For a while, at least.”
He nodded. “Maybe we can… talk. Later.”
“Maybe we can,” I agreed.
As the property manager’s truck pulled into the driveway a few minutes later, I walked up the porch steps, my hand trailing along the railing. The wood was new, smooth under my fingers. I missed the old chipped paint, the grooves worn by decades of hands, but there would be time for that. Time to bring pieces of the past back.