CHAPTER 136: WELCOME HOME

The city greeted him with noise—honking cars, clattering tram rails, voices layered over each other in a rush that didn’t pause for returning sons.

Noel slipped through it quietly.

Bag slung over one shoulder, jacket still half-zipped, laces slightly untied.

He hadn’t said much since stepping off the train—just a nod to the driver, a tired thanks to the old woman who’d let him pass in the crowd.

The cab pulled into a narrow, familiar street lined with sleepy townhouses and sun-faded flower pots on windowsills.

Noel’s house was the one with the red mailbox.

He stood outside for a second.

Just... looked at it.

The paint had chipped a little more since last time. A spiderweb crack ran across the corner of the windowpane.

But the red mailbox still stood proud — a stubborn kind of welcome.

The curtains in the living room fluttered, and before he could even reach for the handle, the door swung open with a loud creak.

His mom stood there—half-apron, hair pinned up in a messy clip, and flour on her cheek.

"Noel!" she beamed, pulling him in before he could say anything.

Her arms wrapped around him so fast his bag nearly fell.

She squeezed him like she meant it, rocking him slightly, as if she’d waited all year for this one moment.

"You’re thinner," she said, not accusing—just noting. "Did you not eat? They didn’t feed you at that school?"

Noel huffed a tiny laugh into her shoulder. "I did."

"You better have," she said, finally letting him go, but not before brushing her thumb over his cheek. "Look at you—hair longer, face all grown. Still my baby."

He blinked slowly, unsure how to respond. She didn’t seem to expect one.

"Come in, come in—it’s all ready. Don’t take your shoes off yet. Your dad!" she called down the hall. "He’s here!"

A gentle rustle and the sound of a book closing came from the small study room to the left.

His father emerged in a sweater too big for summer and wire-framed glasses sliding down his nose.

He smiled softly.

"Noel," he said with that quiet tone Noel had missed more than he’d admitted. "Welcome home."

"Hi, Dad."

They didn’t hug. They never really did. But his father’s hand rested on his shoulder for a second—firm, steady. That was enough.

In the kitchen, the table was full.

Full wasn’t even the word.

Three different stews, rice in a clay pot, grilled vegetables, dumplings, fried tofu, pickled sides in little dishes, and fruit cut in perfect cubes.

Noel stared.

"Mom—"

"You’re not eating cafeteria food here," she declared proudly, tying her apron tighter. "You’re home. Sit. We didn’t eat yet."

"You didn’t—?"

"Nope." She waved her wooden spoon at his father, who just raised his brows like this was routine. "I told him this morning—no one touches a single spoon until our boy walks through that door."

"I said I didn’t mind waiting," his father added mildly, pulling out a chair.

Noel set his bag down and slid into his usual spot—window side, near the shelf with all his childhood mugs still lined up like nothing had changed.

His favorite one — blue, chipped at the handle — still had that silly cartoon sheep grinning at him.

His mom had refused to throw it out. "It’s lucky," she’d always said.

"You didn’t have to wait," he said, barely above a whisper.

His mother cupped his face again before sitting down across from him.

"Don’t be silly. You think we’d eat without you, after all this time?"

She smiled—bright, warm, and stubborn. "Now. Eat. Then you’ll tell me everything. I want the full report. Every. Little. Detail."

Noel picked up his chopsticks and nodded, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat.

He didn’t say much.

But he didn’t stop eating.

And with every bite, the quiet inside him softened—just a little.

After lunch, Noel rose from the table with a quiet sigh, chopsticks resting neatly across his empty bowl.

"Let me take your bag," his mom said, already reaching.

"No, it’s okay, I—"

"Don’t argue," she cut in gently, lifting it with both hands. "It’s not even that heavy. Just the books, right?"

"Mostly."

"You always packed light," she added as she followed him toward the stairs.

"But your suitcase wheels will ruin the wood if you’re not careful, so lift it—no dragging."

"I know," he mumbled, already adjusting his grip on the handle.

They moved together.

Her steps creaked on the stairs, voice trailing like a memory he couldn’t quite catch.

Noel followed slowly, one hand brushing the rail.

Something about the way the house still knew him—it pulled and settled at the same time.

"Your room’s the same. I cleaned it this morning. A little dust, but nothing serious. Even aired the window."

Noel nodded, dragging his suitcase behind him just enough for it to bump against the bottom step.

"And I left a few things in the closet. Your old clothes. Might be too small now, or maybe not your style anymore," she chuckled. "But I couldn’t throw them away. Just in case."

He didn’t answer, but he looked at her—really looked—and something in his chest tugged softly.

At the top of the stairs, she pushed open the door for him.

It still smelled the same.

Books. Old paper. A hint of lemon cleaner she always used when guests were coming over, even though they rarely had any.

The curtains were drawn back, letting in the orange blush of the streetlamp.

The bed was made—neatly, tightly—and the desk lamp was on, casting a soft glow over the room.

His pillows fluffed. His shelf dusted. His childhood poster still pinned crooked on the wall.

Noel stepped inside slowly, as if it might vanish if he moved too fast.

"See?" his mother said, smiling like she’d been waiting years to say it. "Still yours."

She set his bag beside the door and clapped her hands once.

"I’ll leave you to settle in," she said. "But don’t unpack too late. You need rest. And tomorrow—" she pointed playfully, "—you’re helping me with breakfast."

"...Okay," he said, voice soft.

"Get rest, baby."

He nodded, the motion barely more than a breath. As if agreeing meant letting go, just a little.

And when the door clicked shut behind her, Noel exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours.

He dropped onto the bed slowly.

The sheets crinkled under him, and his suitcase sat untouched by the wall.

He stared at the ceiling for a long while.

Outside, a distant tram rolled by. Inside, everything waited—quiet, still, and real.

Home.

Noel didn’t move for a while.

The mattress beneath him felt unfamiliar in the way something old does when it hasn’t held your weight in years.

He let his eyes wander across the room—over the slightly faded posters, the shelf where his childhood books still sat in uneven rows, the desk where a few leftover pens had dried out in their cups.

It felt... paused. Like the room had waited.

But the boy it had waited for wasn’t quite the same.

His skin fit differently now. His thoughts came in heavier shapes.

He stood slowly, walking to the window.

The curtains were thin and cream-colored, the same ones his mom had insisted on because they "let in the sun but not the heat." He reached for them and gently drew them back.

Light spilled in, golden and soft, like a memory too warm to touch.

Outside, the evening had begun to settle.

The buildings across the street glowed in the low sun, windows catching flickers of fire-orange.

Children’s laughter drifted faintly from somewhere down the block, and a bike bell chimed in the distance.

He unlocked the balcony door and pushed it open.

A soft breeze met him, brushing his hair off his forehead.

He stepped out barefoot, the tiles cool beneath his soles.

The small balcony hadn’t changed.

A chipped flowerpot sat in the corner—emptied soil, no plant.

The railing was a little rusty, and the paint had peeled in thin curls.

But it still held the same view he remembered.

The narrow street below. The little convenience store on the corner.

The shop owner used to sneak him candy when his mom wasn’t looking.

He wondered if the same man still worked there, if he’d remember the boy with scraped knees and too many questions.

The crooked telephone pole that always leaned too far left.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the metal railing, eyes tracing the world he once knew.

He hadn’t meant to miss it.

But he did.

Not in the loud way that breaks you, but in the quiet ache behind the ribs—something that pressed but didn’t speak.

Somewhere far behind him, his mother was probably humming in the kitchen.

The smell of grilled peppers and warm rice lingered faintly in the air, as if home had scented itself just for his return.

He glanced at his phone, then back at the horizon.

He didn’t take a picture.

Didn’t send a message.

Just stood there as the light dipped lower, casting long shadows across his old room.

Somewhere The dorm felt wrong without him.

Luca lay curled on his side, one arm folded beneath the pillow, the other loosely hugging it to his chest.

The faint hum of the fridge down the hall reached through the walls, a reminder that life continued—even if he didn’t want it to.

The desk lamp cast a low amber glow across the room, soft but not warm.

The overhead light stayed off. Too much. Too loud.

He hadn’t changed out of Noel’s hoodie.

It still smelled like him in places—the faint scent of fresh cotton, something herbal, clean.

He used to joke that Noel smelled like "a forest that knew how to do laundry." Luca had laughed.

But he remembered that scent now like a ghost in his lungs.

Luca tugged the sleeve over his fingers, buried his nose against the fabric. It wasn’t the same.

His eyes drifted toward the other bed.

Still empty.

He reached for his phone again—half out of habit, half in hope.

Scrolled through old photos. A blurry selfie. A shot of their drinks from last weekend. A message thread with a new gray bubble at the bottom:

"Let me know when you reach safe."

No reply yet.

He locked the screen.

A beat passed. Then two.

He exhaled sharply, sat up, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

His socks barely made a sound as they hit the floor.

A few minutes later, the door clicked softly shut behind him.

The evening air met him like a hush.

Campus paths stretched empty beneath the lamplight, trees swaying with slow grace above.

Luca walked with his hands stuffed in the hoodie’s pocket, head low, backpack slung loosely across one shoulder. No suitcase. No packed clothes. Just him and the quiet.

As he neared the campus gate, the guard gave him a small nod.

"Going home?" he asked gently.

Luca nodded once. "Just for a bit."

He pulled the sleeves down over his hands again.

Noel always did that when he was nervous.

Luca smiled faintly.

Then looked away.

The gate buzzed open.

The world beyond felt colder.

Streetlights blinked past him as he walked toward the bus stop, his reflection trailing in every dark window he passed.

The ache in his chest wasn’t sharp—just steady, like something softly pressing its weight.

He didn’t check the time.

Didn’t think about tomorrow.

Didn’t think about anything, really, except how much quieter it felt to leave alone.