CHAPTER 138: A SOFT PLACE TO LAND

Luca woke slowly, one arm flung over his face as if it could block out the morning he wasn’t ready to face.

His neck ached from how he’d slept—half-twisted, sprawled across the mattress that felt twice as big without Noel in it.

He didn’t move right away. Just lay there, staring at the ceiling fan inching in lazy circles.

The silence was thick, the kind that pressed into your ears and made your thoughts louder.

Finally, he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

The floor felt cool against his bare feet.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, then ruffled his hair, but it did nothing to shake off the emptiness.

His phone sat where he’d tossed it last night, screen dark.

He picked it up anyway—more habit than hope—and padded downstairs, barefoot, every step echoing through the hall.

The parlor yawned open before him—vast, immaculate, and eerily untouched, like a showroom instead of a home.

A single mug sat abandoned on the glass coffee table, a pale ring of coffee drying in the bottom.

His dad’s, probably—already gone, off to whatever meetings filled up every hour of his day.

Luca stood a moment, thumb brushing the edge of that cup.

He wondered if his dad ever noticed how quiet it all was, or if he liked it that way.

He swallowed, turned away, and finally woke the phone.

The screen lit up, and there it was—Noel’s text, sent almost an hour ago:

Good morning. Did you sleep okay?

A breath he hadn’t meant to hold slipped out. His shoulders eased a fraction.

He dropped onto the couch, folding a knee up to his chest as he typed:

Luca: Barely. But seeing your message helps.

He hovered, then added:

I miss you.

He hit send before he could second-guess himself.

The screen glowed in his hand, small and warm in the hush of the house.

And Luca sat there, in that big empty room, just watching for the little dots that meant Noel was writing back.

The front door clicked open, and Luca stepped out into the early light.

The air was still a little cool, the sun stretching softly across the marble steps.

A breeze nudged at the edge of his sleeves.

By the garden path, the housemaid knelt with a watering can, tending to the small patch of flowers edging the driveway—tiny purple blooms barely awake.

She looked up, blinking in surprise.

"Oh! I didn’t know you were back."

Luca offered a faint smile, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Yeah... Got back last night."

She stood, wiping her hands on her apron. "Should I fix you something? Maybe eggs or—"

He shook his head gently, already stepping off the last stair.

"No, it’s fine. I’m heading out now, don’t worry."

Her brows pinched with concern, but she didn’t press.

"Alright then. Just... don’t skip too many meals."

Luca nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wanted to say more but didn’t.

Then, without another word, he turned and headed back inside.

The soft creak of the door followed him as the morning light spilled over the threshold—brief, before it was gone again.

Back in the village...

Somewhere far a bike rolled to a soft stop just past the fence, the old wooden house peeking through the thick line of trees.

Noel climbed off, his eyes instantly drawn to the small figure bent near the ground.

His grandma was outside, sleeves rolled up, pulling weeds from her little vegetable patch, a wide-brimmed hat shielding her from the sun.

Her hands were covered in soil, but she was humming—some old melody he recognized from childhood.

"Grandma!" Noel called as he pushed open the gate, the wood groaning like it always did.

She turned at once, her face lighting up like the sun had decided to shine just for her.

"Oh—my boy!" she said, dropping her little garden fork and rising with her arms open wide. "You’ve finally remembered I exist!"

His grin came slow, warming the corners of his eyes and walked straight into her hug, warm and earthy and familiar.

"I came as soon as I could," he said, muffled into her shoulder. "And you’re already overworking yourself."

"Overworking?" She pulled back and gave him a playful smack on the arm. "This garden keeps me alive, you hear? Sitting still would be the death of me."

Then she narrowed her eyes at him. "But look at you! You’re all bones again. Is your mother feeding you or feeding your shadow?"

"I eat plenty," Noel grinned, taking the garden gloves from her hands. "Now, you sit. I’ll help you finish."

"Help?" she scoffed, but the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her pride. "As if you even remember what’s a weed and what’s not."

"I remember enough to save the tomatoes," he said, already crouching down beside the carrots.

She leaned against the old bench nearby, watching him work, arms folded over her chest.

"You know, when you were younger, you’d come running here crying over some nonsense your parents said. You always looked like a kicked puppy."

Noel chuckled softly. "I still do."

"That’s because you’re soft-hearted like your grandfather," she said with a sigh. "You feel too much and say too little. It’s a beautiful curse."

He looked up at her, dirt on his hands, sunlight catching in his eyes. "I missed you."

Her face softened again, and she reached forward, brushing back his bangs with her wrinkled fingers.

"I missed you too, my boy. The house is too quiet without your mouth running."

A huff of breath escaped him, part laughter, part relief, standing up and dusting off his jeans.

"I brought you something. From Mom."

"From your mother?" she arched a brow. "Then I know it’s goodies. Let’s go inside before it goes cold!"

She hooked her arm into his as they walked back toward the house, the warmth between them thicker than the summer air.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of lemon balm and wood polish.

The old radio murmured from a corner, too soft to make out the song, and a lazy ceiling fan clicked as it spun overhead.

Noel sat on the floral couch, elbows on his knees, watching as his grandma shuffled to the kitchen. Her voice carried easily through the small house, steady and cheerful.

"So you remember that neighbor with the noisy roosters? Uhm! Guess what—he finally moved. Took those beasts with him, thank heavens! Now I sleep like a baby."

Noel smiled, eyes flicking to the familiar shelf of knickknacks and dusty framed photos. "Didn’t you use to say you’d miss their morning crowing if they ever left?"

"Miss what?" she scoffed from the kitchen. "I only said that because you kept teasing me. Those roosters had no respect for dawn."

She came back with the wrapped parcel, her glasses sliding down her nose as she untied the plastic.

"Let’s see what your mother sent now... Ah! Tea, dried mango... oh, my balm—bless her—and biscuits. Hmm, maybe she does love me after all."

"I’ll tell her you said that," Noel said, grinning.

"Tell her!" she said, waving him off. "She needs to hear it once in a while."

She disappeared again, this time returning with two mismatched mugs of tea, steam curling gently above them.

She handed him one, then lowered herself slowly into the chair beside him, letting out a soft groan.

"Old knees," she muttered. "They talk more than I do these days."

"That’s saying a lot," Noel teased, taking a sip.

She raised a brow. "Cheeky. Just like your grandfather."

Then without missing a beat, she launched into another story—this time about the tailor down the street whose wife ran off and came back pretending she just went to buy Anointing oil. "And he took her back! Can you imagine?"

Noel laughed, the warmth from the tea spreading through his chest.

"You’re really keeping tabs on the whole village, huh?"

"Someone has to," she said, reaching for a biscuit.

Noel raised a brow, sipping his tea.

"You think people here will tell the real story?" she added, mouth full. "I get the truth before it hits Sunday service."

They went on like that—tea, laughter, and tales that flowed like a river.

She told him everything he didn’t ask, and he listened like it was gospel.

Because in her voice, in this house, and in these ordinary little moments, Noel could finally breathe.

Noel shifted to the floor, kneeling by her feet as she propped one leg up on a cushion.

Her faded wrapper was bunched at her knees, revealing the soft, veined skin he knew like the back of his own hand.

"Pass me the balm," she said, reaching lazily toward the side table.

Noel beat her to it. "I’ve got it."

"Ah? Look at this grown man, kneeling like he’s back in Sunday school."

He just smiled, squeezing a bit of the thick balm into his palm. The scent hit instantly—mint, eucalyptus, and something else... memory.

Gently, he rubbed it into her knees with slow, circular motions.

"Still too soft-handed," she huffed. "You need to press, not tickle me."

"I’m trying to be gentle."

"You weren’t gentle when you were five and kicked me trying to dodge a bath."

Noel snorted. "You remember that?"

"I remember everything," she said, voice lower now. "You used to run here crying when your parents fought. Climbed into my bed like a stray cat."

He kept rubbing, but his hands slowed.

"You always looked so tired, even as a child," she murmured. "A little boy with a storm behind his eyes. I used to keep biscuits under the pillow—just to make you smile."

"You still do?"

"I might. But they’re mine now. Grandmas need snacks too."

He shook his head, the corners of his lips turning up.

She kept talking—about the neighbor’s cat that had kittens under her sewing machine, about the power going off mid-sermon last week at church, about how she still bragged to her friends that her Noel had the kindest eyes.

And he let her talk. Just sat there, one hand resting on her shin now, the other idle in his lap. Her voice flowed like a lullaby, filling every corner of the house with stories, warmth, and that familiar knowing—he belonged here.

"You’ve been quiet," she said suddenly.

He glanced up, eyes a little glassy. "I’m just listening."

"Hmm," she smiled. "You always listened best when I didn’t ask for it."

He reached for her other leg without a word, the balm warm in his palm.

And still, she talked. About everything. About nothing. About him.

And Noel, curled at her feet, balm clinging to his fingers and the scent of mint still rising in the air, felt the ache inside him finally hush. He was home—in every way that mattered.