Charlotte Blake gripped the steering wheel tighter as the old, familiar road curved beneath the car's tires. The snow falling outside wasn't enough to hinder her driving, but it blurred the edges of the world, turning the evergreen trees into soft shadows. The radio played quietly—a cheerful holiday tune she barely registered. Her stomach churned as the landmarks of her childhood came into view, each one tugging at memories she wasn't ready to revisit.

Her family's house loomed into sight, a stately colonial that seemed to wear its holiday decorations like a smug smile. Strings of white lights framed the windows, and a perfectly symmetrical wreath adorned the front door. Even the driveway was meticulously shoveled, a sharp contrast to the chaos Charlotte felt inside.

She pulled in and cut the engine, taking a moment to steel herself. Her parents' voices were already in her head—her mother's exasperated sighs, her father's thinly veiled disappointment. She reached for the bag of books from Grace's shop on the passenger seat, clutching it like a talisman. Grace's warmth lingered in her mind, a small beacon against the dread pooling in her chest.

The front door opened before Charlotte could reach it, and there stood her sister, Cecily. Perfect, poised Cecily, wrapped in a camel-colored coat with her blonde hair twisted into an effortless bun. "Charlotte," she said, her voice honeyed with the kind of politeness that left no room for genuine warmth. "Mom's been wondering when you'd get here."

Charlotte forced a smile. "Well, here I am."

"And with books, no less. How very you," Cecily said, her gaze flicking to the bag in Charlotte's hand. "Come on, it's freezing out here."

Inside, the house smelled of cinnamon and pine, the air heavy with a kind of curated festiveness. Her mother swept into view almost immediately, her red sweater pristine and her makeup flawless, as though she'd stepped out of a holiday catalog. "Charlotte! Finally. I was starting to think you weren't coming."

Charlotte let her mother's brief hug wash over her without sinking in. "It's good to see you too, Mom."

Her father appeared in the doorway to the den, holding a tumbler of something amber. He didn't bother with a hug. "How's the art world treating you?" he asked, his tone edging on dismissive.

"It's... fine," Charlotte said, swallowing the sting. She knew better than to elaborate. To them, her career wasn't real, wasn't serious. It was a phase, something they assumed she'd grow out of when she finally got her act together—or, as her mother put it, "found some stability."

Cecily stepped in, her smile saccharine. "I've been meaning to tell you, Charlotte. We've got a gallery opening at my firm next month. You should come; maybe you'll get some ideas."

Charlotte's teeth clenched. Cecily, the corporate lawyer with the picture-perfect fiancé, always found subtle ways to remind Charlotte who the family's golden child was. "Thanks, but I've got enough ideas," Charlotte said tightly.

"Well, dinner's almost ready," her mother said, gliding past the tension as if it didn't exist. "We're having roast beef. Cecily's favorite."

Of course it is, Charlotte thought.

She excused herself to the guest room under the guise of freshening up, though what she really needed was a moment to breathe. The room was as impersonal as she remembered, with its beige walls and neatly folded quilts. She set the bag of books on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed, her hands trembling slightly.

This wasn't new. She'd spent her whole life feeling like a runner-up in her own family. Cecily had always been the star—the honor roll student, the prom queen, the one who followed the path their parents had laid out without faltering. Charlotte had been the wild card, the one who didn't fit neatly into their expectations.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the book bag, and she thought of Grace. There had been something so genuine in her smile, something grounding in her presence. Grace hadn't looked at Charlotte with judgment or pity, hadn't measured her against some invisible standard. For the first time in what felt like years, Charlotte had felt seen—really seen.

A knock on the door startled her. Cecily poked her head in, her expression unreadable. "You okay?"

"Fine," Charlotte said automatically.

Cecily stepped inside, closing the door behind her. For a moment, the polished veneer cracked. "Look, I know coming back here isn't easy for you."

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. "And yet, here I am."

"You don't have to be so defensive," Cecily said, sighing. "I'm trying to help."

"Help?" Charlotte said, her voice sharp. "By reminding me how much of a failure I am compared to you?"

Cecily's eyes narrowed. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" Charlotte stood, the books forgotten. "You've always been their favorite, Cecily. The one who can do no wrong. Do you have any idea what it's like to feel like an afterthought in your own family?"

"Charlotte..." Cecily's voice softened, but Charlotte shook her head.

"Forget it," Charlotte said, brushing past her sister and heading downstairs. She couldn't do this, not tonight. The walls of the house felt too close, the air too thick. She needed space, needed air.

Grabbing her coat, she stepped out into the night. The snow had slowed, and the quiet streets offered a respite from the noise inside her head. She walked without a destination, her thoughts circling back to Grace. Maybe tomorrow, she'd go back to the bookstore. She could use some of that warmth again.

The Christmas lights lining the street glowed softly, their colors reflected in the patches of snow. Charlotte took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill her lungs. For the first time that evening, the tightness in her chest began to ease.