Liam Hayes gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. The GPS chimed its final instruction, announcing his arrival at 123 Main Street, Oakhaven. Main Street. It felt less like a destination and more like a regression. Eighteen years. Eighteen years since he’d hightailed it out of this town, swearing he’d never look back at the place that felt too small, too slow, too full of ghosts he’d rather forget.
He parked the rented black sedan in front of the historic Oakhaven Inn, a building older than his grandfather, solid and unyielding like everything else here seemed to be. A stark contrast to the shimmering glass towers he usually designed, monuments to progress and ambition that scraped the sky. Here, the tallest structure was the church spire, and progress seemed to be a dirty word.
He was here for work, of course. The biggest project of his career, ironically, sending him back to the smallest place he’d ever known. The Oakhaven Revitalization Project. A fancy name for tearing down a block of dilapidated, historic buildings flanking the town square and putting up a modern mixed-use complex. Retail on the ground floor, luxury condos above. It was sleek, efficient, profitable. Everything Oakhaven apparently wasn’t.
Slinging his laptop bag over his shoulder, he stepped out of the car and took a deep, bracing breath. The air smelled like damp earth, old wood, and something sweet, maybe honeysuckle from Mrs. Gable’s notoriously overgrown garden next door to the inn. It was annoyingly familiar.
He checked into the inn, the lobby smelling faintly of lemon polish and stale coffee. Mrs. Gable herself, looking exactly as he remembered, but with more wrinkles etched around her kind eyes, greeted him with a hesitant smile. “Liam Hayes? My heavens, look at you. All grown up and in a suit!”
“Hello, Mrs. Gable,” he managed, forcing a polite smile. “It’s good to see you.” It wasn’t, not really. Seeing her just solidified that he was back in the place he’d spent his adolescence dreaming of escaping.
After leaving his bags in the room – a quaint, floral-wallpapered nightmare that smelled of potpourri – he headed back downstairs, needing to survey the site. The project was centered on the block opposite the town square, currently occupied by a few empty storefronts, the old, boarded-up cinema, and… Clara’s gallery.
He stopped dead at the edge of the square. The Oakhaven Arts & Community Center. Painted a cheerful, slightly faded blue, its windows adorned with vibrant, hand-painted signs. And standing outside, wrestling with a large easel, was Clara Evans.
She hadn’t seen him yet. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy bun, stray strands framing a face that was sharper, more defined than the girl he remembered, but still unmistakably her. She wore paint-splattered jeans and a worn band t-shirt. The epitome of everything he wasn’t, and everything he expected from Oakhaven.
A fresh wave of that old high school awkwardness, mingled with something he couldn’t quite name, washed over him. He remembered the way she used to laugh with her popular friends, the effortless way she moved through the school halls, completely oblivious to the existence of the quiet, studious boy with the too-big glasses who watched her from a distance.
She dropped the easel with a clatter. “Oh, honestly!” she muttered, pushing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes.
Now was his chance. Walk across the square, introduce himself, keep it professional. He was the big-city architect, she was the local artist. This was just business.
Taking a deep breath, he started across the cobblestones. The moment his polished dress shoes clicked against the ancient stones, her head snapped up. Her eyes, a startling shade of green, widened slightly, then narrowed. Recognition flared, quickly followed by something cold and sharp.
“Liam Hayes,” she said, her voice clear and lacking any warmth. It wasn’t a greeting. It was an accusation.
He stopped a few feet away, trying to project an air of calm authority. “Clara. It’s… been a while.”
“Not long enough,” she retorted, crossing her arms. “I heard you were coming back. To tear the place down.”
So much for a professional start. The echoes of the past, it seemed, weren’t just in the square’s name. They were standing right in front of him, radiating hostility. This project wasn’t just about blueprints and deadlines anymore. It was personal.
