No Place Like Home

Indigo woke up this morning, fresh off her mother’s funeral. Her mom died unexpectedly. She got the call on Thursday afternoon while she was driving home from work. Her mom’s body was never found. That’s why the funeral was closed casket.

She woke up and went straight to the coffee maker. She poured the steaming coffee into her favorite mug, the aroma sharp in the quiet kitchen. There was a man's hair all over the place. That’s when she noticed the envelope on the counter, addressed in handwriting she recognized.

It was her mom’s. She opened it expecting it to be a letter she made before she passed. But what was in there shocked her. It said, “I’M ALIVE.” Was this a joke, or was Indigo’s mom still alive? Indigo kept reading. “I’m still here, Indie, in the quiet way things last longer than we expect. Some places never finish settling—there’s always one step that sighs, one room that smells like dust and summer, and I still catch myself listening for it. If you ever wonder where I ended up, you already know. To: My Little Flower”

Indigo knew this was her mother. She was the only one who called Indigo “Her Little Flower.” Indigo wanted to find her mother but didn’t know where to look. Indigo reread the letter slowly, tracing each word as if it might change the second time through. The handwriting was unmistakably her mother’s—slanted slightly to the right, firm but uneven, the pen pressed harder on certain letters the way it always had when she was tired or thinking too much.

She studied the phrases that lingered: I’m still here, things last longer than we expect. This didn’t feel like a goodbye. It felt present, deliberate, almost careful, as if her mother had written it knowing Indigo would question every word.

“This must be a prank, is this world that cruel?” Indigo said out loud. But how did someone know her nickname? It was something only her mom called her when she was a baby. Indigo was raised by a single mom. Her dad left when she was only five. They lived in a two-bedroom apartment with little to no food. Indigo’s hands were trembling.

The paper was getting stained in her sweaty hands. She realized her mom only wrote like this when she was scared. When happy, her handwriting was straight. But this giant, unbalanced handwriting was rushed, like she had a time limit.

This made Indigo realize something. The house is now much quieter, with rooms that won't be touched for a long time, like her mother’s room, and her childhood room. Indigo didn’t want to think right now. She headed back to her coffee and realized something was off. The taste reminded Indigo of her mom’s coffee. It was slightly too sweet, faintly spiced.

When she was younger, her mom would let her take one sip of coffee every week. She didn’t make her coffee the same way, so this was either fate or someone did something.

Indigo took a sip of coffee. The taste made her stop. It was just like when she was little, sitting on the tall stool in the kitchen, legs swinging back and forth. Her mom would hum quietly while making breakfast, and the smell of coffee and toast filled the whole apartment. Indigo could see her mom’s hand gently patting her head, feel the warmth of the kitchen, and hear the soft clink of spoons against mugs. It was like she was small again, safe and cozy, and for a moment, nothing else mattered.

Indigo lifted the mug to smell it, and she felt something on the bottom of the mug. It was a folded up piece of paper. The paper wasn’t a letter, it was a drawing of something. She wasn't sure what it was, but it looked familiar. She knew these were hints left by somebody. They wanted Indigo to go find her mom.

Indigo’s mind drifted, almost against her will, to the old apartment she had grown up in️. She hadn’t set foot there in years, not since the day her mom had packed up the few things they owned and moved them into the cramped apartment she had remembered all too well. The memory was hazy at first—the way the wooden floors creaked under my feet, the sunlight slanting through the living room window in the late afternoon, and the faint, lingering smell of old curtains mixed with baking bread.

She remembered the kitchen table, scarred with years of homework and spilled milk, and the tiny bedroom she had insisted on keeping tidy even when it was impossible. For a moment, she could almost feel the knob of the front door beneath her hand, hear the faint hum of the radiator, and smell the faint, familiar scents that had always made the house feel alive and hers.

The letter makes more sense now. “Places that don’t settle,” “Still here.” It was right in front of her the entire time, her mom was in their apartment. Indigo rushed to grab her keys.

After about 20 minutes of driving in silence, Indigo stepped out of the car and immediately got hit by the smell of coffee and wood. She ran inside and turned the lights on. The place was trashed. The doors were broken, the lights were flickering, and the place was covered in trash.

Indigo heard faint screaming coming from her room. She ran as the floorboard creaked. She couldn’t believe her mother wasn’t dead. She got to her room and felt around for the lights. But then she felt something. A hand, big, and covered with a glove. The person didn’t feel like her mom. The light flipped on and Indigo saw a man. His face looked eerily familiar. Who was this?

“Indigo, I've been waiting all day for you. You took your time. Your mother always did too.” The man said.

“Who are you?” She said.

“I am your father, Indigo. You see, your mother isn’t here. I left the note. I killed her. You’re next.”

“It was your hair on my table you maniac!”

Indigo swung at the man and missed. He grabbed her arm and stabbed it with a knife. Indigo fell to the ground. The house was starting to go dark. Her arm was burning badly. Indigo could barely move. She hesitated before she finally kicked the man and ran, but not fast enough.

“Time to join your mother,” The man said.

The mention of her mother made Indigo snap. She kicked him down again and ran for the door. She made it to the door, and to her surprise, her father stood right there. He went around back. He stood there, blocking the exit. Indigo was more scared than she’d ever been before. He swung, but she ran towards the back. As she left, she locked the door behind her and ran to her car. She started it and slammed on the gas.

Indigo realized she had let her grief cloud her judgment. This man took advantage of the grief and used it against her. She knew he would be back, she just didn't know when.