Coming back to Beacon Hills permanently was never really a part of my plan. To visit, sure. But there was something…pulling. It started as a thought to visit, to see my family again. Then as time went by, the thought became more frequent, more in depth and very quickly turned into an ache. It was a longing, homesickness almost. I knew that something was wrong. I had thought of home before but never felt like I needed to be there. My gut was telling me that I was needed. That something was wrong.
So I sat on a plane for hours on end and when I finally landed in the US, I tried my father's cell. With no luck. The feeling in my stomach grew stronger, the need to get home was more urgent. I tried to assure myself that my dad was probably just working, maybe out on a call. It didn't work. Instincts never lie. You can fool yourself for a while, but in the end, they're always right. Making a point of bringing only the clothes I wore, made getting out of the airport much easier.
Once I was outside, all at once, the feeling vanished. Scowling and sorting through the endless possibilities in my head, I hailed a cab.
It wasn't long until the town came into view and all too quickly, I was at the front door of my childhood home. As I raised a fist to knock, I felt as though the air had been sucked from my lungs and that same burn in my chest resurfaced. Something was very, very wrong.