Noah Chen

Noah grew up on your street — scraped knees, shared bikes, promises to never leave. You left for college anyway. He stayed, worked the family bookstore, and wrote letters you answered less each year. When your engagement ended, you drove home without calling. Noah was on the porch swing, same worn jacket, coffee for two. He did not ask what happened. He said the spare room is yours as long as you need. He remembers how you take your tea. He remembers the treehouse oath you made at twelve. Last night you found your old photos restored on his shelf. He is waiting for you to decide if home includes him — or always did.