Tulips at Twilight correctly guessed the content of the next chapter (this chapter). This is a collection of chapters from EPOV post divorce and prior to Bella moving back to Seattle. It was important to showcase this chapter because we need to see that he has done, is doing, the work needed for a second chance. If two people decide to reconnect after infidelity, the offending partner SHOULD HAVE/ MUST HAVE done the work.
This is how I envisioned his missing years and hope you all like it. Until next week (or earlier depending on how quickly I go through my drafts :)).
After the divorce, Edward threw himself into finishing medical school. It was all he had left to pour himself into—something tangible, structured, relentless. He studied like a man possessed, not because he wanted to excel but because he didn't know what else to do with the ache that had hollowed out his chest. Grief was supposed to get easier, but when you were the one who'd broken something sacred, it only calcified, deeper and sharper with time.
Medical school was brutal—and not just because of the hours, or the pressure, or the sheer volume of information he had to absorb at an inhuman pace. It was brutal because Edward entered it hollowed out.
In the early weeks after the divorce, everything felt numb. He would sit in packed lecture halls with other aspiring doctors and feel completely alone while surrounded by the soft clatter of laptop keys and the low hum of whispered side comments. He'd once imagined Isabella waiting at a café nearby, waiting for him to round up. Instead, he sat in the back, head down, scribbling notes.
Anatomy lab hit harder than expected. Dissecting cadavers forced him to confront mortality in a raw, physical way. He would spend hours in the chilled room, the chemical scent of formaldehyde clinging to his skin even after long showers. And the irony was not lost on him—he was learning to heal the body at the very moment his soul was coming apart at the seams.
But he pushed through.
He was good at it. That was the most infuriating part. Edward had a steady hand, a sharp mind, and the kind of intense focus that made him a natural in surgical rotations his third and fourth years. Professors praised his precision. Classmates came to him for notes. He built a reputation for being reliable, if distant. Quiet but competent. They didn't know he was surviving on coffee and guilt, that every all-nighter he pulled was another night he didn't have to sit in the silence of his apartment, haunted by memories of soft laughter and the smell of pastry dough clinging to Isabella's hair.
Clinical rotations were a turning point—especially emergency care. Something clicked when he was shadowing and meeting with patients. The adrenaline sharpened his instincts, gave him purpose. He saw people at their worst, their most vulnerable. And in those rooms, holding a hand or watching the resident physician suture a wound, he didn't have to think about his own pain. He could be useful. Needed.
One night, during his third year, he assisted in treating a woman who had collapsed from exhaustion. Her husband had left her two weeks earlier, and she hadn't eaten in days. Edward stayed long after his shift, sitting with her, listening. Not as a student. But as someone who understood what it felt like to break.
He didn't tell her about his past. But she cried into his shoulder, and for the first time in a long time, he let the tears come too—quiet, steady, the kind that didn't seek comfort, only release.
He made it through the exams. Through the sleepless nights and the days that blurred together. Somehow, he stayed on track. People saw him as focused, driven. They called him disciplined. No one knew he was running—from a life, from a love, from a version of himself he didn't know how to be anymore.
In his fourth year, he applied for residencies. On paper, he was exactly what programs wanted: high scores, strong letters, impressive clinical work. He chose Chicago because it was far. Because it was cold and hard and unfamiliar. Because if he stayed in Seattle, the memories would kill him.
And as he walked across the stage at graduation, diploma in hand, white coat pristine and name embroidered in neat lettering on the breast pocket, the one he truly wanted was not in the crowd cheering for him.
Doctor Edward Cullen.
The sun filtered gently through the trees on campus, dappling the crowd in soft light. It was one of those unusually clear Seattle afternoons—still cool, but touched with the promise of summer. The lawn was filled with folding chairs, students in gowns, and proud families clutching bouquets. Laughter rang out in bursts, cameras clicked, and voices overlapped in joy.
Edward stood quietly at the edge of the group, white coat now slung over one arm. He'd already taken his picture with his class, his family, forced a few smiles, shaken hands. But it all felt distant.
Because she wasn't there.
Isabella had once dreamed of this moment almost as much as he had. Had stayed up late quizzing him with flashcards during his first year. Had packed meals for him when he barely remembered to eat. Had kissed him softly after a stressful exam and told him he was brilliant.
Now she was somewhere, and he had no idea if she'd even know he'd finally done it.
A voice broke through his fog.
Alice gently, as she approached from behind. "You look like someone who just got dumped at prom."
He turned and offered a tired smile. Alice, in a navy wrap dress, had her short brunette hair tucked behind one ear. Gray eyes—so like their father's—studied him closely.
With a grim smile. "Feels more like I got stood up at the altar."
She didn't argue. Instead, she slipped her arm through his and leaned against him.
"I'm proud of you," she said. "We all are."
He let the silence stretch before replying. "It just doesn't feel how I thought it would."
From the crowd, their parents were making their way over, trailed by Emmett and Rose, Emmett's new girlfriend. Their mom reached him first, hugging him tightly.
"Oh, Edward," she whispered. "You did it. I am so proud of you."
His dad smiled warmly as he clasped Edward's shoulder. "You've done good, son. Better than good."
"Thanks," Edward murmured, his throat tighter than he expected.
Emmett followed next, grinning ear to ear. "Look at you. Dr. Cullen. Seattle should throw you a damn parade."
Beside him, Rose smiled. She was tall, almost regal, with translucent-gray eyes and sleek blonde hair. There was a grace to her—effortless, magnetic.
"Congratulations," she said, her voice kind. "Emmett told me how hard you worked. This is huge."
"Thanks. It means a lot."
"You're not smiling," Emmett noted, brow raised.
"I'm tired," Edward replied, then gave a half-hearted shrug. "And I've been thinking."
"About Chicago?" Alice asked, her tone gentle but knowing.
Everyone looked at him.
"Yeah," he said finally.
Their mom's face lit up.
Their father nodded in pride. "Solid program. The ER team there is top notch."
"You're gonna freeze your ass off," Emmett added with a smirk.
"I've survived Seattle winters. I think I will be fine," Edward replied dryly.
Alice tilted her head. "Is that really what you want?"
He looked past them for a moment, to the sea of happy families, the balloons, the children running across the grass. Then he met her eyes.
"Yes. A clean start. And maybe..."
He did not complete the sentence and no one asked.
Their mother stepped forward, smoothing a wrinkle on his sleeve. "You'll come back, though. Eventually?"
"I will," he said softly.
They nodded, and for a few minutes, conversation picked back up, laughter returned, and pictures were taken.
Later, when the crowd had thinned, Edward found himself standing beneath the shade of a large elm tree, the sounds of the ceremony fading behind him. Alice appeared beside him again, quiet and thoughtful.
"You think she'd be proud of you?" she asked after a beat.
He didn't look at her. "I don't know. I hope so. But I don't think that's what she wanted—from me. Not pride. Just presence. I wasn't there when she needed me."
"You were young."
"I was married."
Alice sighed, linking her arms over her chest. "She loved you."
"And I failed her."
Her voice softened. "You're still here. Still trying. That counts for something."
He turned toward her. "I'm moving to Chicago next week, Ali. I don't even know if I'll ever see her again. I don't even know where to look."
She rested a hand on his arm. "Maybe you're not supposed to find her yet. Maybe you're supposed to find yourself first."
His chest ached. "What if she's already moved on?"
"Then you move on. And you forgive yourself."
He didn't answer. He didn't need to. Because she was right.
Edward looked back toward the campus. The white coat hung heavier over his arm now, as if it carried the weight of all the years, all the failures, all the hope still buried inside him.
He had become a doctor. But the man he wanted to be—the man Isabella deserved—was still just beyond reach.
But maybe not forever.
In the months that followed Isabella's sudden departure, Edward searched for her with a quiet desperation. He checked in with old friends, scoured social media for any hint of where she might have gone, even drove by her father's house more than once, hoping she'd somehow be there. But every lead led to a dead end, every message went unanswered. The silence was deafening. He'd leave the porch light on some nights, foolishly hoping she might come home, might need him, might still love him enough to try again. But the distance between them had grown too wide, too fractured.
When the court mandated a mediation session, Edward clung to the chance like a man drowning. He walked into the neutral office space with a thousand words burning on his tongue—apologies, explanations, pleas. But Isabella sat across from him with a stillness that was devastating, her eyes unreadable, her posture closed. She spoke only when necessary, her voice calm and detached, as if every word was a formality. When he tried to speak—tentatively, earnestly—she held up a hand, firm but not unkind.
"I'd prefer we stick to the process," she said quietly, not meeting his eyes.
The mediator glanced between them, offering a tight nod before steering the conversation back to logistics. Edward barely heard a word after that. He watched her, trying to read between the lines of her silence, trying to find some hint of the girl he had loved and lost. But she was gone—at least to him.
After that session, after she handed him the note, she disappeared. No forwarding address. No social media. No trace. It was as though she'd packed up not only her life but every remaining thread that tied them together. All he had left was the echo of what they used to be—and the haunting question of whether she had ever planned on coming back.
And then one night, as he was preparing to head to Chicago, he found himself outside Jacob's bakery. Riddled with anxiety, he left.
He went back again. This time, he made it inside. Jacob opened the door to the kitchen and froze.
"I just need to know if she's here. If she's okay."
"She's fine," Jacob said curtly. "That's all you need to know."
"Please," Edward begged, shame curling in his gut. "I just want to see her. Talk to her."
Jacob's partner, Seth, stepped in then, arms folded across his chest. "She doesn't owe you anything."
"I know," Edward whispered. "But I can't move on without making it right."
"You should've thought of that," Jacob said, voice low. "Let her heal."
They both signaled to the door.
He didn't come back.
He stopped hoping for a happy ending. That part of his story seemed over. But he still hoped for one thing - forgiveness.
At age twenty-seven, Edward landed in Chicago at the tail end of summer. The skyline was unfamiliar, concrete and glass etched into the sky, all hustle and ambition. It suited him, in a way. He needed a place that moved fast enough to drown out the past.
Northwestern's ER residency program was elite and relentless. The pace was brutal—endless rotations, overnights that blurred into mornings, patients who arrived broken and sometimes left the same. But in that chaos, Edward found rhythm. He found purpose. When his hands were busy, his mind couldn't wander. When he was bone-tired, there was no room left for regret.
He moved into a modest apartment on the Near North Side, a small corner of calm in a city that was bustling. The walls were bare. No photos. No plants. Just functionality. Clean, sparse, untouched. Just like him.
It didn't take long to make friends. There was Victoria Phillips, a fellow resident with a wicked sense of humor and an even sharper tongue. Tanya Denali, who brought coffee to morning rounds like offerings to the gods. And Eleazer Patrick, brilliant and intimidating, who somehow managed to always look well-rested. They formed a kind of quiet camaraderie—people who saw each other at their worst, shared cafeteria food, and traded stories of lives outside of the hospital that seemed increasingly far away. And most importantly, they were great platonic friends. The type of friends Edward needed to power through his program.
They urged him to go out, to breathe a little, to live.
He tried.
There were dates. Women who were kind and funny, who liked his eyes or the way he listened. A girl named Lauren who taught third grade and smelled like citrus. A lawyer named Jessica who reminded him, painfully, of the woman he still loved—not in looks, but in the way she filled a room with quiet confidence.
But he couldn't get past the first few steps.
The intimacy felt false. Every laugh rang hollow, every touch a betrayal. He'd smile, say the right things, walk them home, and then sit alone in his apartment, guilt gnawing at him like hunger. He never invited anyone back. He couldn't.
He told himself he was just tired. That he was focused on medicine. That he didn't have time for relationships. But deep down, he knew the truth—his heart had been left behind in Seattle, packed away with the pieces of a marriage he had shattered.
It wasn't just Isabella's absence—it was the shadow of her. The weight of what he'd done and failed to do. He'd broken her heart, and in the aftermath, his own had quietly split down the middle.
He began therapy a year after he landed in Chicago. Although work was a great distraction, he needed to work through his feelings of guilt . At first, it felt like a confession booth—awkward and sterile. But over time, it became a mirror. He talked about his failed marriage. The fear of not being enough. The slow erosion of the marriage. How he'd blamed her for grieving too silently and not leaning on him, and how he felt like a lesser man for stepping out.
The therapy office was quiet, lit softly by the glow of a lamp in the corner. Rain tapped against the windows like a metronome, steady and low. Edward sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together like he could hold himself together if he gripped tight enough.
His therapist, Dr. Jason Jenks, waited with the patience of someone who knew silence was often louder than words.
"I was there," Edward said finally. His voice was tired, like the weight of a decade had settled into his bones. "When her dad died, I didn't disappear. Not physically. I showed up. I canceled classes. I cooked. I stayed up with her through sleepless nights. I tried. God, I tried."
Dr. Jenks watched him quietly. "What happened?"
"She stopped letting me in." He looked up, eyes rimmed with frustration and sorrow. "It was like a switch flipped. She was grieving and I got it—I get it. She lost the only parent she had left. But she wouldn't talk to me. Wouldn't cry in front of me. She kept saying she was 'fine,' but she was disappearing right in front of me."
"Did you tell her how you felt?"
"I tried. But it felt selfish, you know? How do you say, 'Hey, your dad just died, but I feel invisible' without sounding like an asshole?" He let out a bitter laugh. "So I didn't. I gave her space. I thought it was temporary. That she'd come back to me when she was ready. But weeks turned into months, and suddenly… I was sleeping next to a ghost."
Dr. Jenks nodded, jotting a note. "And how did that affect you?"
"I started to resent her," Edward admitted, voice low. "And then I hated myself for resenting her. I felt like I couldn't win. I was walking on eggshells—scared to upset her, desperate to fix it, but completely shut out. And I was lonely. More than that—I was hurt."
His jaw tensed. He stared at the floor like it might offer answers.
"There was a student—Katherine. She was kind. Funny. Nothing serious. It started with stupid things—grabbing coffee after class, talking about music. She laughed at my jokes. She saw me."
"And the affair?" Dr. Jenks asked gently.
"I didn't mean for it to happen," Edward whispered. "I told myself it was just friendship. That I needed connection. But I knew what I was doing. I knew when it crossed a line. I kissed her. And then… it went further."
His voice cracked.
"After the second time, I couldn't look at myself. I went home and Isabella was in the kitchen, baking at 2 a.m., like she did when she couldn't sleep. I watched her frost cupcakes in silence and felt like the lowest version of myself."
"Did you tell her?"
"Not then. I should have. But I was terrified. Not of losing her—because in some ways, I already had. I was afraid that if I told her, I'd destroy what little was left. So I lied. I pretended."
"And when she found out?"
"She found my phone," Edward said quietly. "Messages. I came home and she was gone. My phone was on the counter with the messages on the screen."
He wiped at his face.
Dr. Jenks leaned forward, his voice soft. "You've carried this a long time."
"Too long," Edward nodded. "I've done everything I can to move forward. Finished med school. Came to Chicago for residency. Tried dating. But it never works. I can't get close to anyone. I feel like I don't deserve to be happy. Like… if she's still out there hurting, I have no right to be okay."
"You were there for her, Edward. But grief changes people. Her pulling away wasn't your fault."
He looked at her, tired and hollow. "But cheating was."
"Yes," Dr. Jenks said honestly. "But your guilt doesn't have to be your life sentence."
He swallowed hard. "I reached out to Jacob, her former boss. I begged him to help me find her. He said she didn't want to be found. That she was healing. That I needed to let her go."
"Maybe that's what she needed," He said gently.
"But what about what I need?" he asked, voice cracking. "I don't want her back. Not if she doesn't want that." He said with a pause, not truly believing his lies. "But I need her to know I didn't stop loving her. Not even when I was at my worst. I need her forgiveness, not just for a second chance—just so I can finally breathe."
Dr. Jenks was quiet a moment. Then, "That's what we'll work toward. Not erasing the past. But making peace with it."
Edward gave a broken nod.
Therapy didn't fix Edward overnight. There were no sudden revelations, no magical absolutions. But over time—week by week, word by word—something began to loosen inside him.
He talked. And he listened. He unpacked not just the affair, but the grief behind it. The loneliness. The helplessness of watching someone you love dissolve into sorrow and being unable to follow them into it. He stopped trying to make excuses, and started owning what he'd done—not with self-hatred, but with the kind of quiet accountability that grows with maturity.
Forgiveness still mattered to him. Isabella's forgiveness—her peace—was something he prayed for in the small hours of the morning, when the city was still and his thoughts loud. But what Dr. Jenks helped him understand was that he might never get it. That she didn't owe him anything. And that he was the one who had to decide whether his life would remain in limbo because of that.
"I still want her to forgive me," he admitted once in session, voice rough. "But I'm starting to see that I can't wait for it to start living again."
And so he did.
He threw himself into his work. Not just out of guilt anymore, but because he was good at it. Because he cared. Volunteering at free clinics, mentoring med students, working long shifts in the ER—he gave his energy where he could, in ways that made a difference.
He went on dates. At first, it felt strange, like trying on clothes that didn't quite fit. But he no longer flinched at the idea of connection. He was open, and when something didn't feel right, he was honest. He wasn't looking for forever—just for moments of warmth and understanding. Small human joys. Laughter over dinner. Someone to watch bad movies with after a long shift.
He stayed in therapy. He still journaled. He still lit a candle for her on her birthday, and still dreamed of her sometimes—always soft, always distant. But the dreams no longer haunted him. They were a part of his healing, like faded bruises that only hurt if pressed too hard.
For the first time in years, he stopped asking, What if? And started asking, What now?
He hadn't stopped loving her. Maybe he never would. But love, he realized, didn't always mean reunion. Sometimes, it meant living a life worthy of the person you once held closest.
And that's exactly what he set out to do. He was finally finding his .
Therapy had become a part of Edward's routine, as natural now as morning rounds or a cup of black coffee before a long shift. It wasn't a miracle cure, but it steadied him. Long, brutal stretches of residency blurred the days into sleepless rotations and the occasional quiet moment of self-reflection between call shifts.
He was learning to live again—slowly, deliberately. The guilt was still there, but dulled now, worn down by time and accountability. He was learning not to run from his past. He no longer searched every face in a crowd hoping to see hers.
Then Emmett called.
Edward had just gotten back to his apartment after a brutal 14-hour shift. He could still feel the chaos of the long day. He barely had the energy to sink into the worn couch when his phone buzzed.
"Hey," Edward answered, his voice hoarse.
"You sound like hell," Emmett laughed. "You good?"
"Living the dream," Edward muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "What's up?"
There was a pause. A shift in Emmett's voice, lighter, a little nervous. "I asked Rose."
Edward sat up straighter. "You what?"
"I proposed. Last night. She said yes."
Despite everything—despite the lingering ache that still stirred when he saw happy endings—Edward smiled. "No shit. Emmett, that's amazing."
Emmett chuckled, almost bashfully. "Yeah. She's... she's everything, man."
"I'm happy for you. Truly."
"And I want you to be my best man."
Edward's breath caught. "You sure?"
"Who else?" Emmett replied. "You've always been there, even when you weren't. I want you standing next to me."
Edward didn't hesitate. "Then I'll be there."
The wedding was nine months later in Seattle—on a sun-soaked weekend in late spring. Edward took a rare four days off, packed his bag, and boarded the flight with a strange mix of anticipation and joy.
Seattle greeted him with familiar softness: gray skies that cleared just in time for the rehearsal dinner, the scent of salt from the Sound, pine needles scattered along old sidewalks. He stayed at his parents' new house in Bainbridge Island, the new room untouched, filled with new bedding and furniture. Unfamiliar.
The ceremony was held at a lakeside estate nestled outside the city—a stunning, modern venue framed by towering evergreens and a glistening dock that caught the light like glass. The decorations were ethereal: soft whites, pale green eucalyptus garlands, floating candles in tall glass cylinders, and vintage champagne coupes at every table.
Rose was breathtaking—tall, regal, her blond hair twisted into a loose chignon. Her gown was simple silk, flowing like water with a deep-V back and pearl buttons trailing her spine. Her eyes, gray, pale and piercing, never left Emmett's as she walked down the aisle.
Emmett was beaming, his nerves only visible to Edward. As best man, Edward stood by his brother's side and passed him the ring with steady hands. His toast at the reception was honest and quiet, not showy—just like him.
"To Emmettt and Rose," he began, voice low but sure. "May your love never need to be loud to be strong. May you hold each other fiercely in the quiet moments. And may your joy always find you, even when life gets hard."
There were tears. Laughter. Dancing under strung lights that twinkled like constellations. Edward's mother pulled him into a hug at the end of the night and whispered, "You're starting to look like yourself again."
Maybe he was. Or maybe, just for that night, surrounded by people who loved him despite the darker years, he'd let go of some of the weight he'd carried.
It wasn't closure. But it was warmth. And that, he realized, was enough.
The city of Chicago glittered outside the tall windows of the apartment, lights from the trains streaking past like comets, echoing the pace of a city Edward had called home for the last several years. The walls of the loft were warm with laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the smell of roasted vegetables and garlic butter wafting from the oven.
Edward stood in the kitchen, stirring a sauce for the chicken he'd perfected during a rare off week from the hospital. He wasn't a chef by any means, but after years of late shifts and microwave meals, he had learned to cook enough to survive—and, tonight, to impress.
"You know," said Tanya, leaning against the counter with a glass of red wine, "you could've just let us order in. It's your farewell dinner."
Edward shot her a mock glare. "If I'm going out, I'm going out with class."
"Ooh, so garlic butter equals class now?" teased Eleazer, who was already halfway into the loaf of bread Edward had baked earlier.
"Yes," Edward said. "Garlic butter is the food of the gods. You're lucky to witness my final culinary act."
The room burst into laughter. It wasn't a big group—just Eleazar, Tanya, and Victoria, the people who had become his makeshift family over the last few years. Friends forged in the fire of residency, through sleepless nights, rotations, and the quiet moments they shared over late-night coffee and vending machine snacks.
Dinner was simple—roast chicken, herbed potatoes, salad, and that infamous garlic butter bread.
As they sat around the table, plates full and glasses refilled, the conversation took its usual winding path from hospital gossip to medical memes to TV shows they swore they'd catch up on after residency.
"So, Seattle," Tanya said eventually, twirling a piece of hair around her finger. "It feels real now. You're really going."
Edward nodded, chewing slowly before responding. "Yeah. It's time. I've missed my family."
"You'll be amazing there," Victoria said, resting her chin on her hand. "They're lucky to have you. But damn, Edward. We're going to miss you."
"I'll miss you too," he said quietly. "This place... you guys. You got me through the hardest part of my life."
Eleazar lifted his glass. "To survival. And to starting over."
They all raised their glasses.
"To Edward," Tanya added. "The most stoic, secretly sappy, probably-going-to-save-the-world one among us."
"To Edward!" they echoed.
He laughed, a little embarrassed, a little touched. "You guys are ridiculous."
"But you love us," Tanya grinned.
"God help me, I do."
As the night wore on, the music got a little louder, the wine a little heavier, and the stories a little wilder. They told tales of night shifts gone wrong, patients they couldn't forget, and the ridiculous things they'd done to keep each other sane. It wasn't glamorous, but it had been real.
When the clock inched toward midnight and the candles burned low, Edward found himself staring out the window at the skyline.
"You okay?" Tanya's voice was soft beside him.
"Yeah," he said. "Just thinking."
"About her?"
He didn't answer at first, then nodded. "A little."
"You ever think about going to find her?"
"I did," he said. "I tried. But it wasn't the right time. And maybe it never will be. But I'm learning to let that be okay."
Tanya gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "You're not the same man who arrived here. You've grown. You've healed."
"I'm still healing."
"Good. That means you're alive."
They stood there in silence for a while, watching the lights flicker across the city. Then Eleazar's voice called from the table.
"Hey, one more round of Cards Against Humanity before Edward becomes a serious doctor again?"
Edward turned and smiled. "I am in."
And just like that, the night wrapped around him like a favorite old coat—warm, familiar, a little frayed at the edges—but full of the kind of love that made goodbyes just a little easier.
The rain came in soft sheets the morning Edward moved back to Seattle, as if the city had been waiting with a quiet, familiar embrace. At thirty-one, his residency was finally over. The exhaustion hadn't fully left his bones, but the thought of being home—truly home—brought a steadiness to his chest he hadn't felt in years.
His new home, which his mom and sister had helped with the logistics, was on the edge of Magnolia. It was nothing fancy—modest, clean, with tall windows and warm wood floors. The kind of place that felt like a blank page. The type of place you wanted to grow a family.
"Okay," said Alice, her arms full of kitchen utensils and a roll of drawer liners. "Do you want the plates near the sink or closer to the stove? I'm optimizing your flow here."
Edward chuckled, lifting a box labeled Books – Heavy! onto the living room floor. "Whatever makes sense. You're the domestic genius."
Their mother appeared behind her, balancing a small potted plant and a box of spices. She looked around the house with a slow, approving nod. "It has good light. I like it."
"You did send me this option so I would hope you like it," he said with a smirk.
"No," she replied, giving him a sideways glance. "You picked it because it's ten minutes from the hospital and five from a decent coffee shop. But it's still a nice place. It suits you."
He shrugged. "I just needed somewhere quiet. Somewhere simple."
Alice popped up from under the kitchen island, where she had been assembling a bar stool. "Well, it's definitely that. It's also very beige. We should add a rug or something."
He raised an eyebrow. "You offering to decorate?"
"I'm not offering—I've already ordered samples," she said, tossing him a fabric swatch like it was a challenge. "And Mom and I are picking up a plant for your bedroom tomorrow. You need something alive in there besides your brooding energy."
He laughed—really laughed—for the first time in a while. The sound surprised even him.
"You're good at this," he said, sarcastically. "Both of you."
"We've had practice," his mom said softly, playing along. "Besides, it's nice to have you close again."
Edward looked around. The boxes would take a week to unpack, and the furniture wasn't all here yet. But already, it felt more lived-in. Warmer. The way Alice hummed under her breath while arranging mugs. The way his mother adjusted the spice jars so the labels faced out.
Maybe this was what coming home really meant.
As they sat later that evening on the floor with takeout containers spread between them, Alice leaned back against the wall and asked, "So, what now? You've got the job. The place. What's next for you?"
Edward thought for a moment. The city buzzed gently outside the open windows, a faint smell of rain and jasmine wafting in.
"I'm going to live," he said at last, his voice steady.
"His mother reached over and squeezed his hand.
"Welcome home, sweetheart."
And for the first time in a long time, Edward believed it.
As the years slipped quietly by, a familiar presence from the past would return like a sudden gust of wind—unexpected, undeniable—offering him the chance at the redemption he had long believed was lost to time.