Chapter Two: Welcome to Nowhere

The moment we pull up to Uncle Max ‘s house, I know two things:

1.This is going to be the longest summer of my life.

2. I’m going to HATE it here.

The house looks like it’s part of the forest, like it grew there instead of being built. It’s made of dark wood, the kind that blends in with the trees, almost disappearing if you’re not looking straight at it. The windows are square and plain, and the front porch wraps around the side, the wooden steps worn down by time. A single rocking chair sits near the door, unmoving. There’s no welcome mat, no sign of life — just the creak of the trees. It’s quiet in a way that feels intentional. Like the house is meant to be hidden. Like it doesn’t want to be found.

I glance at my mom, who’s already halfway out of the car. She turns and looks at me, a flicker of something — sadness? regret? — crossing her face.

“Nova,” she says softly, “I know this isn’t what you wanted.”

I look away, biting her lip.

She pulls away and steps out of the car. “I’ll be back in a few weeks,” she says giving me a soft smile and a hug. Then she walks towards the car and drives away, leaving me sitting alone with my bag and a sinking feeling in my stomach.

I stare at Uncle Max’s house again. The windows are all dark. No sign of life. Just silence.

Great. 

I drag my suitcase out of the car and slam the door with unnecessary force. It’s not like I’m upset or anything. It’s not like I’m stuck in a creepy house in the middle of nowhere because my mom decided I needed “discipline” from a guy who could probably break me with a single stare.

I walk up the porch steps slowly, each one heavier than the last. My hand hovers over the door handle, but I don’t reach for it right away. The wood beneath my fingers feels cold, rough. The house is silent except for the faint creak of old boards settling. I swallow hard, my breath fogging the air.

The door is locked.

I knock, barely louder than a whisper.

Seconds stretch. My heart hammers. Then—

A slow, deliberate creak echoes as the door cracks open, the hinges whining like a warning.

I almost wish it hadn’t.

Uncle Max stands there, arms crossed, military posture so stiff it looked painful. Uncle Max was built like a brick wall and had the permanent scowl carved deep into his face — the kind that tells you laughter died a long time ago.

“Nova,” he says, his voice a little too gruff. “Come on in.”

I squint at him. “Uh, nice to see you too, Uncle Max.”

He steps aside to let me in, and I drag my suitcase past him, feeling like I’m crossing the threshold of some weird, dystopian prison.

The inside of the house is exactly what I expected. Bare walls. Sparse furniture. Everything looks like it’s been strategically arranged to feel both uncomfortable and unnervingly efficient.

Uncle Max shuts the door behind me and locks it again. He doesn’t even glance at me.

“You’ll sleep in the guest room,” he says. “It’s down the hall. First door on the left.”

“I can figure it out.” I throw my bag over my shoulder and start toward the hallway, but something catches my eye.

There’s a door at the end of the hall, shut tight. It’s weird. Not just because it’s locked, but because I didn’t see it when we walked in. The door looks... different. It feels different. Like it doesn’t belong here.

I hesitate, but Uncle Max’s voice breaks the silence.

“You’ll stay away from that room. Understand?”

I freeze. The sharpness of his voice unmistakable.

But something in the back of my head clicks.

I don’t know why.

I just know I won’t stay away from it.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The stale scent of dust hits me as soon as I opened the door. The room is small, square, and exactly as depressing as I expected, with beige walls that seemed to swallow the light. There’s a twin bed with army-neat sheets. One wooden desk. A chair that looks like it’s older than me.

But that’s it. There’s nothing else.

No posters. No books. No personal anything. Just beige walls and silence.

I drop my suitcase on the bed and sit beside it, the mattress stiff under me. Like it’s never been slept in. Like it’s just here because Uncle Max thought, well, might as well provide the bare minimum.

I press a hand to my chest, trying to breathe through the tightness that’s been creeping in since we arrived.

This isn’t punishment.

This is exile.

I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to do here. No internet. No signal. No noise.

I glance at my suitcase. I packed books. A few card games.

Not much else. Because how do you pack for being sent away?

I lie back on the bed, arms flopped to the side, staring at the ceiling.

I don’t cry.

But I don’t exactly feel like the version of me who was brave enough to send that email either.

Right now?

I just feel… stuck.

Like I’ve been placed inside a puzzle I’m not supposed to solve.

But I will. Eventually.

UPDATED VERSION OF THE CHAPTER:

The moment we pull up to Uncle Max ‘s house, I know two things:

1.This is going to be the longest summer of my life.

2. I’m going to HATE it here.

The house looks like it’s part of the forest, like it grew there instead of being built. It’s made of dark wood, the kind that blends in with the trees, almost disappearing if you’re not looking straight at it. The windows are square and plain, and the front porch wraps around the side, the wooden steps worn down by time. A single rocking chair sits near the door, unmoving. There’s no welcome mat, no sign of life — just the creak of the trees. It’s quiet in a way that feels intentional. Like the house is meant to be hidden. Like it doesn’t want to be found.

I glance at my mom, who’s already halfway out of the car. She turns and looks at me, a flicker of something — sadness? regret? — crossing her face.

“Nova,” she says softly, “I know this isn’t what you wanted.”

I look away, biting my lip.

She pulls away and steps out of the car. “I’ll be back in a few weeks,” she says giving me a soft smile and a hug. Then she walks towards the car and drives away, leaving me sitting alone with my bag and a sinking feeling in my stomach.

I stare at Uncle Max’s house again. The windows are all dark. No sign of life. Just silence.

Great.

I drag my suitcase out of the car and slam the door with unnecessary force. It’s not like I’m upset or anything. It’s not like I’m stuck in a creepy house in the middle of nowhere because my mom decided I needed “discipline” from a guy who could probably break me with a single stare.

I walk up the porch steps slowly, counting every one of my footsteps, each one heavier than the last. My hand hovers over the door handle, but I don’t reach for it right away. The house is silent except for the faint creak of old boards settling. I swallow hard, my breath fogging the air.

I knock, barely louder than a whisper.

Seconds stretch. My heart hammers. Then—

A slow, deliberate creak echoes as the door cracks open, the hinges whining like a warning.

Uncle Max stands there, arms crossed, military posture so stiff it looked painful. Uncle Max was built like a brick wall and had the permanent scowl carved deep into his face — the kind that tells you laughter died a long time ago.

“Nova,” he says, his voice a little too gruff. “Come on in.”

I squint at him. “Uh, nice to see you too, Uncle Max.”

He steps aside to let me in, and I drag my suitcase past him, feeling like I’m crossing the threshold of some weird, dystopian prison.

The inside of the house is exactly what I expected. Bare walls. Sparse furniture. Everything looks like it’s been strategically arranged to feel both uncomfortable and unnervingly efficient.

Uncle Max shuts the door behind me and locks it again. He doesn’t even glance at me.

“You’ll sleep in the guest room,” he says. “It’s down the hall. First door on the left.”

“I can figure it out.” I saw dragging my suitcase through the hallway, but something catches my eye.

There’s a door at the end of the hall, shut tight. It’s weird. Not just because it’s locked, but because I didn’t see it when we walked in. The door looks... different. It feels different. Like it doesn’t belong here.

I hesitate, but Uncle Max’s voice breaks the silence.

“You’ll stay away from that room. Understand?”

I freeze. The sharpness of his voice unmistakable.

But something in the back of my head clicks.

I don’t know why.

I just know I won’t stay away from it.

***

The stale scent of dust hits me as soon as I open the door. The room is small, square, and exactly as depressing as I expected, with beige walls that seemed to drain any hint of colour or life. There’s a twin bed with army-neat sheets. One wooden desk. A chair that looks like it’s older than me.

But that’s it. There’s nothing else.

No posters. No books. No personal anything. Just beige walls and silence.

I drop my suitcase on the bed and sit beside it, the mattress stiff and hard under me. Like it’s never been slept in. Like it’s just here because Uncle Max thought, well, might as well provide the bare minimum.

I press a hand to my chest, trying to breathe through the tightness that’s been creeping in since we arrived.

This isn’t punishment.

This is exile.

I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to do here. No internet. No signal. No noise.

I glance at my suitcase. I packed books. A few card games.

Not much else. Because how do you pack for being sent away?

I lie back on the bed, arms flopped to the side, staring at the ceiling.

I don’t cry.

But I don’t exactly feel like the version of me who was brave enough to send that email either.

Right now?

I just feel… stuck.

Like I’ve been placed inside a puzzle I’m not supposed to solve.

But I will. Eventually.

***

A few hours later, I’m sprawled on the stiff mattress, pretending to read even though the words keep smudging into one long, blurry paragraph. My brain refuses to focus. My body refuses to relax.

That’s when I hear it—a single, sharp knock.

I jolt upright, heart kicking, and my elbow bumps the picture frame on the bedside table. I catch it just in time. The photo stares back at me: me, Mom, and Dad, smiling like the world hadn’t fallen apart yet. All happy. All whole. I swallow hard and set it back carefully, like it might shatter if I breathe too close.

The door creaks open.

Uncle Max stands in the doorway. He doesn’t look at me—he looks past me, like he’s scanning for threats in a room that contains nothing but dust and my existential crisis.

“Dinner,” he says. Then he turns and walks away. No “welcome to my home, dear niece I haven’t seen in years.”

Cool. Love the warm, inviting family atmosphere.

I drag myself up and follow him toward the kitchen, which looks exactly like the rest of the house: plain, bare, functional. Everything metal or wood. Nothing soft. Nothing colourful. It looks like a place where comfort comes to die.

The table is already set when we walk in. Two plates. Two forks. Everything placed with military precision, the edges of utensils aligned precisely and everything. Dinner smells… decent. Some kind of chicken. Vegetables.

Uncle Max pulls out a chair and sits. He doesn’t gesture for me to do the same.

I hesitate for half a second, then sit anyway, because I’m not five and I refuse to be intimidated by a man and his aggressively neat table settings.

We eat in silence for a few minutes. The kind of silence where you become painfully aware of every sound—fork scraping, chair legs shifting, the faint hum of something electrical in the walls.

I don’t want to be the first one to break it, so I watch him instead.

Even the way he eats is controlled. Three bites. A sip of water. Three more bites. No wasted movement. No hesitation. He doesn’t look at his plate, or at me. His eyes keep drifting—not to the walls, but to the doorway behind me.

Like he’s expecting someone to walk through it.

Or break through it.

I shift in my chair, suddenly very aware of my back to the rest of the house.

“You don’t have to stare at the door,” I say, aiming for casual. “It’s not going to attack you.”

His fork pauses. Just for a beat.

“It’s a habit,” he says.

“From the army?”

A pause. Longer this time.

“Yes.”

That’s all I get.

I pick at my food. It’s actually good, which catches me off guard. I kind of expected him to live off of MREs or protein bars, not actual food.

“So,” I try again, “do you always eat in complete silence, or is this a special occasion?”

He finally looks at me then. Not sharply. Not unkindly. Just… carefully. Like he’s deciding what version of the truth I’m allowed to have.

“I value quiet,” he says.

“Figures.”

We go back to eating. My eyes wander, bored and restless, really seeing the kitchen for the first time.

There’s no calendar on the wall. No family photos. No mail on the counter. No magnets on the fridge, no notes, no evidence that time passes here at all. Everything looks temporary, like he could disappear tomorrow and leave nothing behind.

And the door at the end of the hallway flashes in my mind again, uninvited.

“Do you ever get lonely out here?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Uncle Max doesn’t answer right away. He keeps eating, chewing slowly, like he’s considering the question from every angle. For a moment, I wonder if he’s just going to ignore it.

Then he says, “Loneliness is manageable.”

That’s… not a no.

I tilt my head. “That’s not exactly an answer.”

He sets his fork down, careful, precise. “It’s the only one you’re getting.”

Fair enough.

I go quiet again, but my mind doesn’t. It keeps circling the same thoughts—this house, the locked door, the way he watches the hallway like it’s a threat instead of an exit.

He finishes eating before I do. When he stands, I almost jump, my nerves already stretched thin. He collects both plates without asking, stacking them neatly.

“You’ll want to be up early,” he says.

"Why?" I ask.

"You'll see tomorrow," he says walking towards the sink. “Lights out in ten minutes.”