He knew this road. He’d walked it a thousand times as a boy, yet in the dark, the familiar became alien. The old oak tree at the bend wasn't a landmark anymore; it was a many-limbed giant reaching out through the mist. The rhythmic shush of the waves below sounded like heavy breathing.
It was the porch light of his father’s house. It was weak, struggling against the fog, but it was there. As he crested the final hill, the smell of woodsmoke cut through the salt air. The tension in his shoulders, which he hadn't even realized he was carrying, finally broke. Coming Home in the Dark
He reached the heavy oak door and didn't bother to knock. He stepped inside, the sudden warmth of the hallway pressing against his cold cheeks like a hand. He knew this road
"Elias? That you?" his father called from the kitchen, the clink of a teapot settling the last of his nerves. The rhythmic shush of the waves below sounded
The gravel crunched under Elias’s boots, a sound that felt far too loud in the suffocating silence of the valley.
He had missed the last bus from the station, leaving him with a three-mile trek up the winding coastal road. Usually, the moon provided a silver guide, but tonight, a thick Atlantic fog had rolled in, swallowing the cliffs and the sea. The world had shrunk to the five-foot circle of light thrown by his dying phone flashlight.