The house was just as he remembered it—small, whitewashed, with the cracks running along the walls like veins. The wind off the sea moved through the dunes in the distance, shifting the sand in slow, deliberate patterns, as if the earth itself had given up resisting and was content to let the wind shape it however it wished. Oliver stood in the doorway for a moment, the weight of the air inside the house heavy against him. 

 

Five years had passed since he’d left South Africa, and it felt both as if nothing had changed and as if everything had. The same smells of dust and sea salt lingered in the air, but it was different somehow. Smaller, perhaps. Or maybe it was him that had grown too large for this place, too foreign in his own skin to belong anywhere. He closed the door quietly behind him and stood in the kitchen, looking at the worn table, the kettle that hadn’t been used in days, the dull light coming through the narrow window. 

 

His father had gone out, probably to the shed or the garden, where there was always something to fix. His father was always moving, always repairing things, as if by keeping his hands busy he could ward off the silence that clung to the house. It was a silence Oliver  had never been able to escape. Not in America, not here. It was as if he carried it with him, this hollow space where other people seemed to have certainty and purpose. 

 

He set his bag down near the door and listened. The house was quiet, except for the soft creak of wood as the wind pressed against the walls. His mother was upstairs. She hadn’t come down yet. She rarely did these days, and when she did, she moved like a shadow through the house, her presence thin and fleeting, as if she had already begun to slip out of life. 

 

Oliver went to the stairs, hesitated for a moment, then slowly climbed them. The wooden steps groaned under his weight, and he felt as though the house were protesting his return, reminding him that he had left and shouldn’t expect to be welcomed back so easily. When he reached the landing, he stood outside his mother’s door and knocked softly. 

 

There was no answer. He hadn’t expected one. But after a moment, he turned the handle and stepped inside. 

 

The room was dim, the curtains drawn against the light. His mother was sitting in the old armchair by the window, her thin hands resting on her lap. She looked smaller than he remembered, as if she had shrunk into herself, her body folding inward in quiet retreat. Her hair, once thick and dark, had grayed at the temples, and her skin was pale, almost translucent, as if the sunlight hadn’t touched her in years. 

 

She didn’t look up when he entered. Her eyes were fixed on the narrow strip of sky visible between the curtains, but Oliver knew she wasn’t seeing it. She was lost somewhere, in her own mind, in some distant place where the world had stopped making sense. 

 

He cleared his throat, feeling the awkwardness of his own presence in the room. “Mum,” he said, his voice low. 

 

She didn’t move. For a moment, he thought she hadn’t heard him. But then she blinked, slowly, and her gaze shifted from the window to him. Her eyes were dull, as if the life behind them had been dimmed. But she was still there, somewhere. 

 

“Oliver,” she said, her voice soft and distant, as though she were speaking from far away. 

 

He nodded, stepping closer. “I’ve come back,” he said, though the words felt hollow even as he spoke them. He had come back, but to what? To this house, where the walls seemed to close in on themselves, where his father was always outside and his mother always upstairs? He had come back because he hadn’t known where else to go. 

 

She nodded slowly, her gaze drifting back to the window. “I knew you’d come back,” she said, but it wasn’t clear if she was speaking to him or to herself. “You always come back.” 

 

He wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but he didn’t ask. There was no point. His mother had always lived in her own world, a world that was half here and half somewhere else. When he was a child, he had tried to follow her into that world, tried to understand the sadness that hung over her like a shadow. But he had given up long ago. Now, he just stood beside her, unsure of what to say or do. 

 

“Do you need anything?” he asked, though he knew she wouldn’t answer. 

 

She shook her head slightly, the movement barely perceptible. “No,” she whispered. “I don’t need anything.” 

 

They sat in silence for a long time. Oliver looked around the room, noticing the small things that hadn’t changed—the vase of dried flowers on the dresser, the books stacked neatly on the floor, the quilt folded at the foot of the bed. Everything was in its place, as if the room had been frozen in time, untouched by the years that had passed. It was as if his mother had built a fortress here, a place where nothing could reach her, not even time. 

 

“I didn’t think you’d be back so soon,” she said suddenly, her voice breaking the silence. 

 

Oliver  glanced at her, surprised. “I didn’t know I’d be coming back,” he said honestly. “I just… I didn’t know where else to go.” 

 

She smiled faintly, though there was no warmth in it. “There’s nowhere else to go, is there?” 

 

The words struck him in a way he hadn’t expected. There was nowhere else to go. It was true, though he hadn’t wanted to admit it. He had left South Africa thinking he could find something else, somewhere else. But he had found nothing. Not in Atlanta, not in the vast cities of America, not in the quiet moments he had tried to fill with work. Everywhere he had gone, the same emptiness had followed him. Now, back in this small house by the sea, he felt it more acutely than ever. There was nowhere to go, because there was nothing to find. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he said, though he didn’t know what he was apologizing for. 

 

His mother didn’t respond. She was looking out the window again, her hands still resting in her lap, as if she were waiting for something. But Oliver knew there was nothing coming. Nothing ever came here, except the wind and the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. He felt a sudden urge to leave the room, to escape the stillness that pressed down on him like a weight. But he stayed where he was, rooted to the spot by some invisible force he couldn’t name. 

 

“I should go,” he said after a while. “Dad needs help with the shed.” 

 

His mother nodded absently. “Go,” she said. “He needs you.” 

 

Oliver  stood, lingering for a moment by the door, as if there were something else he should say, something that could close the distance between them. But there was nothing. There had never been anything. He turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. 

 

Outside, the sky had darkened slightly, and the wind had picked up, carrying the scent of the sea. His father was still at the shed, hammering away at something. Oliver watched him for a moment, then walked over and picked up a spanner, not because he knew what to do with it, but because it was expected. His father glanced at him but said nothing, just nodded in the direction of the shed. 

 

They worked in silence, but the air between them was thick with the things that hadn’t been said. Oliver could feel his father’s presence beside him, could hear the low, steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his hands moved with mechanical certainty over the rusty bolts and hinges. His father didn’t ask for help often, and when he did, it was always like this—silent, demanding. It wasn’t the kind of help that needed words, just actions. And it was never about fixing the shed, or the fence, or the lawnmower. It was about something else, something Oliver had never been able to give. 

 

After a while, his father stopped what he was doing and straightened up, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He glanced over at Oliver, his expression unreadable, and then leaned against the shed, crossing his arms over his chest. 

 

“You’ve been gone a long time,” his father said, his voice rough, the words heavy in the air. 

 

Oliver  didn’t look up. He focused on the spanner in his hands, turning it over, feeling the cool weight of the metal. “Yeah,” he said quietly. 

 

His father didn’t respond right away. He stood there, staring at the shed as if it held the answers he was looking for. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, almost as if he didn’t want to be heard. “I thought you’d be back sooner.” 

 

Oliver nodded but said nothing. He wasn’t sure what his father expected him to say. He hadn’t come back sooner because there had been nothing to come back to. No life waiting for him, no future that made sense. He had left because he had wanted to escape the weight of it all, the smallness of this place, the endless silence. But the silence had followed him. It had settled in his chest, in the hollow spaces where words couldn’t reach. 

 

“You didn’t call much,” his father added, his tone sharp now, a note of accusation creeping into his voice. 

 

“I was busy,” Oliver said, though it felt like a lie even as he said it. Busy with what? He had been busy with nothing, with the slow grind of days that blurred together, 

 

 with the emptiness of hours spent working jobs that didn’t matter. He had been busy avoiding the truth. 

 

His father snorted, a bitter sound. “Busy,” he repeated, shaking his head. “Too busy to call your own parents.” 

 

The tension between them thickened, pressing down on Oliver’s shoulders, making it harder to breathe. He wanted to leave, to walk away, to disappear into the dunes and let the wind carry him out to sea. But instead, he just stood there, gripping the spanner tightly in his hand. 

 

His father took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “What do you have to show for it, then? All that time away. What do you have now?” 

 

Oliver  looked up, meeting his father’s gaze for the first time. There was anger there, but something else too—disappointment, maybe, or something darker. His father had always expected him to be more than he was, to be something else, something better. But Oliver  had never been able to live up to those expectations. He had always been a step behind, always falling short. 

 

“I don’t have anything,” Oliver said, the words coming out flat, final. “I didn’t find anything.” 

 

His father’s face tightened, a muscle in his jaw twitching. He took another step forward, his voice low and hard. “Then what the hell were you doing?” 

 

Oliver  felt a surge of anger rise in his chest, sharp and hot, but he pushed it down, buried it. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know what I was doing.” 

 

His father stared at him for a long moment, the air between them heavy with unspoken things, with the weight of all the years that had passed. Then he shook his head, his expression hardening. “You’re just like her,” he muttered, turning away. 

 

The words hit Oliver like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of him. He stood there, frozen, watching as his father walked back toward the house, his shoulders hunched against the wind. 

 

He sat.