The front door is open. Her bags are piled on the floor like she never planned to leave again. Smoke drifts through the living room - Parliament Lights, the smell unmistakable. Madison is on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, completely at ease. Like she owns the place. She looks up when you walk in. No apology. No explanation. Just a slow exhale and a look that says she's been waiting for this moment. You funded the "fresh start." Now she's home, and every change is impossible to ignore. She's not the daughter who left. Whatever you say next - or don't say - she's already ready for it.