She nods, not judging, just absorbing the information with that quiet solidarity she’s always had.
I scan the porch and spot a loose block of stone near the entry step—one I used to sit on when my shoes were muddy, too scared to track dirt inside. I pick it up, testing its heft, and something like determination shoots straight through the exhaustion.
“This’ll work,” I mutter.
Clara steps back as I raise it and bring it down on the lock. The crack of impact shatters the stillness. I hit it again, harder.
Memories swirl behind my ribs—every goodbye I never said, every moment I fled without looking back.
I hit it a third time, and the lock snaps open, clattering against the porch. It feels like a metaphor so on the nose I almost laugh.
I push open the door.
The house smells like dust and something faintly sweet, as if someone aired it out not too long ago. Afternoon light spills through the windows. Nothing looks destroyed or vandalized. In fact, it looks… almost tended to.
We carry our suitcases inside, our footsteps echoing softly. My pulse thuds as I take in the living room, the narrow hallway, the staircase where I used to slide down the railing and earned a bruised thigh because I misjudged the landing.
The air feels thick with memories, but I keep walking, steadying my breath.
The upstairs hall stretches out in front of me with the same creaks in the same places. When I reach my old bedroom door,my hand hesitates on the knob. My skin tingles with nerves I don’t want Clara to see.
I twist it.
The room looks frozen in time.
My posters still cling to the wall despite peeling edges. My dresser sits beneath the window, and my books are stacked exactly the way I remember—paperbacks from thrift stores, worn at the corners. Even the small ceramic bowl I used to toss my earrings into sits untouched.
Clara steps in behind me and lets out a soft laugh. “Metallica?” she says, gesturing at the giant poster above the bed. “Since when?”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I shake my head. “It was a phase.”
I walk farther inside, feeling the air shift around me. Everything feels close and far at the same time, like walking inside a dream made of old bones.
Then I look at the window.
The one Billy used to climb through.
A sharp ache bolts through my chest, so sudden I press my palm over the spot on instinct. A memory flashes—bare feet, whispered promises we had no business making, a warmth I thought would last forever.
I inhale, forcing my feet to move.
“Give me a second to get fresh sheets,” I tell Clara before my voice can betray what’s swirling inside me.
She nods and sits on the edge of the bed, her exhaustion melting across her features.
I step into the hallway closet and find a set of linens still sealed in plastic. I carry them back and start making the bed. Clara watches me, too tired to help, too tired to even pretend she’s not about to fall over.
Once the sheets are smoothed out, she pulls off her shoes, climbs onto the mattress, and sinks down with a groan of relief.
“This place…” she murmurs, eyes already dipping shut. “You had a whole different life here.”
I tuck the corner of the blanket near her shoulder. “If your family hadn’t transferred after one month, you would’ve grown up in this town with me.”
She lets out a laugh that fades into a yawn. “You have my military father to thank for that.”
“You don’t say,” I tease lightly.
She yawns again and murmurs, “Set an alarm so we don’t miss the meeting.”
