Stormbound

She wonders how much these afternoon thunderstorms keep her trapped in this stifling little town. Had her aunt Francis not needed help last year during chemo, she doubts she’d have ever returned. All she’d ever dreamed of was escape—fast, far, irreversible. And for a while, she managed it.

By eighteen, she’d joined a missionary group, moved to Guatemala, helped build sanitation systems. Three years later, she returned to the States, working graveyard shifts at the corner’s office in downtown Los Angeles. Distance had been her lifeline; now it feels like a fragile, disappearing tether.

The flight home was uneventful, but landing back in her old world felt like stepping into another storm. Rain pounded the roof of the old wooden house, lightning tearing the sky into jagged ribbons of white. Every creak in the floor sounded accusatory. Cold air bit through the thin walls, and each distant rumble of thunder seemed to echo her doubts.

Now, with the day darkening, the air dropping fifteen degrees, and the old wooden house rumbling around her, she wonders if she’ll ever leave again.

Francis would need her. And she would be there. But each step through the hallway, each glance at the familiar furniture, pressed on her chest like a weight she couldn’t shrug off. The storm raged outside, and inside, so did the questions: Would she ever leave? Could she ever leave?

Even as she settles beside Francis, a part of her waits, heart thudding like the sky itself—knowing the past has not loosened its grip, and that home is a storm she cannot outrun.