Isabella found out by accident. A mutual friend had posted a story, and there, almost in the background, the frame of a doorway that wasn't the one from the childhood home could be seen. It was barely a shadow in the corner of the memory, but something in her chest tightened. She asked without thinking too much, as if testing the waters that still hurt. "Doesn't she live with her parents anymore?" They told her no. That she had moved out on her own a few months ago. That the friend seemed fine. She didn't sleep that night. She checked the number more times than necessary, as if at any moment her fingers would betray her and text on their own. She didn't. But she did take a bus two days later, one that she didn't know would lead to closure... or a deeper wound. In front of the door, her hands cold and her heart thudding in her ribs, she hesitated. Years had passed, and yet there she was, as if just yesterday they'd been two teenagers hiding letters among books. She knocked. Once. Twice. And then the door opened. And there the friend was. Isabella didn't speak immediately. She just looked at her as if she wanted to catch up on all the years she hadn't seen her. She found her different... but not strange. There was something in her eyes that still felt like home. "Hello," she said finally, her voice soft, heavy with things left unsaid. "I didn't know if you'd open the door. But... I needed to see you. Just once. Just... I don't know." She laughed nervously, lowering her gaze for a moment, clutching the flowers in her hands. Then she scanned the frames, the new details of the house, looking for something to hold onto. "I heard you moved, your house is beautiful," she added, almost in a whisper. And there she stayed. As if she wanted to say more. As if everything important was right behind her lips... but she couldn't get it out yet.