The next morning was clear and windless.
Daniel rose before dawn, a cup of black coffee warming his hands. He stood by the door, same as always. But this time, something had shifted.
Hope didn't ache anymore.
It hummed quietly beneath his ribs.
He spent the morning cleaning the living room. He dusted the picture frames, polished the piano keys. He opened the windows and let sunlight flood in. The house smelled like lemon oil and memory.
In the afternoon, he went through Eliza's old things—folded them gently into a box, but didn't tape it shut. He wanted them close, but he also wanted to make space.
Just in case.
By evening, the table was set again. Three plates. Three forks. Napkins folded with care.
As the sun dipped below the treetops and gold spilled across the porch, Daniel stood by the door.
Waiting.
At exactly 5:00 p.m., he heard footsteps.
Not imagined. Not wishful.
Footsteps.
Soft, shuffling, unsure.
He froze.
A shadow crossed the walkway. Then another.
His hand trembled as it reached for the knob.
One slow breath.
Then he opened the door.
A woman stood before him. Thin, paler than he remembered, hair longer, darker—but unmistakable.
Eliza.
Beside her, a boy. A little taller than before, but those eyes—Noah's eyes—still wide, still blue, still his.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Eliza's lips quivered. "Hi, Daniel."
He staggered back, hand to his mouth. "How…?"
"We were found a few months after," she said quietly. "The river carried us miles away. Head injuries. Amnesia. It took time. But I started remembering. Bits and pieces. Then everything."
Daniel's knees buckled and he sat on the steps, shaking.
Noah stepped forward, hesitant. "Dad?"
Daniel looked up, eyes brimming.
He opened his arms.
Noah ran into them.
"I waited," Daniel whispered, burying his face in his son's hair. "I never stopped."
Eliza knelt beside them, tears running freely.
"I knew you would," she said.
Later, they sat inside. Eliza told the story—how she and Noah were rescued by a remote hiker. How they were treated under assumed identities until her memory returned. How she traced her way back. To this exact door.
Daniel held her hand the whole time.
That night, after Noah fell asleep in his old bed, Daniel and Eliza stood on the porch together.
The stars blinked overhead.
"I kept the door ready," he murmured.
"I saw," she said softly. "Every night, I dreamed of it. The light. You standing there."
He looked at her. "You came back."
She leaned into him. "I never stopped coming. It just took a while to find the way."
Daniel smiled through tears.
"I'm not waiting anymore," he whispered. "You're home."
They stood there, arms wrapped around each other, the house behind them warm and full again.
Inside, the candle on the dinner table flickered once—and then, peacefully, went out.
The End