The scent of butter and garlic filled the kitchen, curling around the edges of my thoughts like an old, familiar song. Steam from the Chicken Fricassée swirled in the sunlight streaming through the window, turning golden in the late afternoon light. Azzy chirped from her spot on the counter, tail bouncing like a tiny metronome, waiting for a taste.

  I stirred the sauce slowly, the motion grounding me, keeping my hands busy. The warmth of the kitchen should have been comforting. It almost was.

  But the past had a way of creeping in when I least expected it.

  The sizzle of butter in the pan reminded me of lazy afternoons in Verdantia. My grandmother’s voice, sharp but patient, guiding my hands as I fumbled with a whisk. The scent of fresh bread cooling on the counter. Beyond the window, golden fields stretched as far as I could see, the wind carrying the rustling of wheat through the open door.

  Those fields felt impossibly far away now. A lifetime away.

  And maybe they were.

  I was nine the day she left.

  Before she left, I thought the world began and ended with her.

  I remember sitting at the kitchen counter, swinging my legs while she hummed under her breath, chopping herbs with practiced ease. I’d ask her silly questions—about Pokémon, about adventures, about why the sky turned pink in the evening. She always had an answer.

  "The sky changes colors because it’s saying goodnight," she told me once, ruffling my hair. "It’s tired after a long day, just like us."

  And I believed her.

  She used to press kisses to the top of my head. Tuck me in at night, whisper stories about distant places I had never seen. She smelled like citrus and something floral, something warm. That scent used to mean home.

  I didn’t realize, back then, that she was already halfway gone.

  Most of that morning is a blur, softened by time, but some moments cut through like shards of glass.

  The clatter of suitcase wheels on the wooden floor.

  The way she kissed my father goodbye like it was just another day.

  And the way she never even looked at me.

  She called it “a journey.” Said it with a smile, like it was something grand and exciting. But there had been something else in her voice too—something thin and sharp beneath the surface, like a hairline crack in glass.

  Even at nine, I could tell she was lying.

  "I’ll be back one day, sweetheart," she said, crouching in front of me, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

  "I love you."

  A promise. A lie.

  Dad tried to explain it to me later, in his careful, soft-spoken way. “She just needed to figure things out,” he said, crouching down to meet my eyes. “Sometimes people need time and space to understand what they really want.”

  Time and space. I remember curling my fingers into fists, staring at the door. What about us?

  For a while, I waited. After school, I’d sit on the porch with Azzy, staring down the dirt road that wound through the fields, waiting for her to come back. I made up stories, whispered them to Azzy as she dozed in my lap. Maybe she got lost. Maybe she’s bringing us a gift. Maybe she just needs more time.

  But the years passed, and the stories stopped.

  By the time I turned twelve, I’d stopped waiting.

  Dad had taken a job at VireTech. It was supposed to be this amazing opportunity for him, and he was so excited. But the job meant long stretches where he’d be away, commuting between Verdantia and Lumora City. My grandmother, the only other steady presence in my life, watched over me in his absence.

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  She was always distant, always watching. I used to think it was because she didn’t want to get too attached. But now, looking back, I wonder if it was something else entirely.

  Something bigger than me.

  Something about me.

  I don’t remember much of what she told Dad before we left Verdantia. Just hushed words exchanged in the doorway, her voice low and serious.

  "She is not ready."

  Her voice had been firm, unshaken. She never raised her voice, never needed to. People listened when she spoke.

  Dad rubbed his temples. "She deserves a chance at a normal life."

  Grandmother watched me with that look again. That same quiet, assessing gaze she always had when she thought I wasn’t paying attention.

  "A normal life?" she echoed, more to herself than to him. Then, softer, "There is no normal for ones like her."

  Ones like me.

  I didn’t understand what she meant at the time. But now, sometimes, I wonder.

  She never hugged me. She never had. But that day, as we stood in the doorway, she reached out—just for a moment—her fingers ghosting over my cheek. A touch so light I almost convinced myself it didn’t happen.

  It felt like a farewell. One I wasn’t meant to understand.

  Maybe I still don’t.

  When I turned sixteen, Dad sat me down.

  "Izzy," he started, voice gentler than usual. "I think it’s time we made a change."

  I knew what was coming.

  He explained how his job at VireTech had offered him a permanent position in Lumora City. It was the chance to finally settle down, to be together full-time.

  "This is a big opportunity for us," he said. "Things will be better there. I promise."

  I wanted to be happy for him. And part of me was. But leaving Verdantia felt like tearing out roots that had grown too deep. The fields, the friends, the old oak tree in the backyard—it was all I’d ever known.

  But leaving Verdantia felt like tearing out roots that had grown too deep. Saying goodbye to the golden fields, to the little general store where everyone knew my name.

  To Claire, who had never thought it was strange when I talked to the empty air.

  When we were little, I used to talk to the air when I thought no one was listening. I didn’t know why—I just felt like someone was there. I’d whisper secrets into the empty space beneath the oak tree, half-expecting someone to whisper back.

  Most kids laughed when they caught me. Called me weird. Said I had imaginary friends like a baby.

  But not Claire. She just sat with me, watching, waiting.

  On my last day in Verdantia, she didn’t cry. She just pressed a small, folded note into my hand.

  "For when you need a reminder that you’re not alone."

  Inside was a pressed marigold. Our favorite flower. The scent of dried earth and summer, trapped between brittle petals.

  Then there was Rebecca, who barely spared me a glance, too busy with her PokéVogue magazines to care. We had been inseparable once—two little girls giggling over imaginary journeys, planning our futures like we had any control over them. But as we got older, she became more concerned with her image, with the right clothes, the right people. I guess I didn’t fit into that picture anymore.

  And Noah, the boy with the best hideouts and the best stories, who promised he’d visit me in the city—even though we both knew he wouldn’t.

  By the time I closed the last box, Azzy chirped, oblivious to what was happening. She rolled her tail like it was just another game.

  "Don’t worry, Missy," I whispered, scooping her up. "We’ll figure it out. Just you and me."

  Lumora City was everything Verdantia wasn’t. Towering skyscrapers, bustling streets, neon lights that made the nights feel like day. Dad thrived there, throwing himself into his work with a renewed energy. He’d come home late, exhausted but happy, and I couldn’t bring myself to ruin that.

  So, I tried to adjust. I tried to fit in.

  But city kids were different. They had their cliques, their fast-paced lives, their inside jokes I couldn’t keep up with. The farm girl from Verdantia was an outsider in every sense.

  Azzy was my anchor through it all. The one constant in a sea of change.

  I don’t think about her much anymore. Not really.

  But some nights, when the city is silent and it’s just me and Azzy, I wonder.

  Where is she now? Does she think about us? Does she regret leaving?

  I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That if I ever saw her again, I’d have a lot to say. How dare you walk away? How dare you leave us to pick up the pieces?

  But deep down, I don’t know what I’d actually do.

  And that makes me hate her even more.

  The League Circuit is supposed to be a fresh start. A chance to make my own path.

  But I’ve told myself that before.

  I glance at Azzy, her bright eyes full of trust and mischief.

  Unlike her, I don’t walk away.

  I keep moving forward.