Kat pulls me into a hug before I can step back. When she steps back, her eyes are soft but tired, rimmed with exhaustion from crying in waves over days.
"I'm glad you got to spend so much time with Alfie, Nate," she says quietly. "He loved your visits."
"Of course," I say, and mean it. "Those visits did more for me than they did for him."
She squeezes my hand once, then lets go.
She doesn't ask how I'm doing. She knows better. Today isn't about me. Today is about being present for the people who need me to be solid ground.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Julian
Have you heard from Tommy?
Tommy's antics lately have kept everyone on edge again—missed rehearsals, late arrivals, that look in his eyes I recognize too well from my own reflection years ago. The look of someone barely holding it together, performing stability while everything underneath threatens to crack.
I need to deal with it. But right now, standing in this room, surrounded by people who need me present and whole, I can't fragment myself across multiple crises.
Before I can type a response, another text comes through.
Julian
Shit, I forgot man. I'm sorry. I've got it covered. Send my condolences to Nick.
I pocket the phone. The worry doesn't leave with it, but at least Julian's handling it. One crisis deferred, even if it's just temporary.
The room presses in on me all at once. Not overwhelming exactly, just crowded. Too many voices, too many emotions bleeding into each other, too much weight in the air compressing my chest.
I need a minute. Just one. Just enough space to breathe without someone else's sorrow soaking into me.
Mom's voice floats after me as I move toward the stairs, but I don't turn around. She knows this look. Knows when to let me go, when pushing would only make me retreat further. A language we've learned together over years of my recovery—the silent negotiation of space and connection.
I'm going to do the one thing I vowed I wouldn't do when I came here today.
I go upstairs.
The upstairs hallway is quiet in a way that feels intentional, like the house itself is holding its breath.
The last of daylight spills through the tall windows at the end of the hall, catching dust motes suspended in the air, turning them golden. The wooden floors creak softly under my weight—the same familiar sounds from childhood.
Everything is exactly where it's always been. The framed photos on the walls. The slightly crooked runner rug. The doorknobs that need replacing but never get replaced because Mom says they're "part of the character."
Jake's door is the first one I pass.
I stop without meaning to, my feet making the decision before my mind catches up.
Maybe it's Alfie's death. Maybe I'm just tired of avoiding the places that hurt, tired of tiptoeing around the edges of my own history.
Whatever the reason, my hand lifts, and I turn the knob.
The room smells faintly of cedar and lake water. Like Jake's presence has soaked into the walls and furniture and can't be washed out no matter how many years pass.
His bed is made—military corners, the way Mom used to do it. The shelves still hold his books, spines worn from repeated readings. Posters curl slightly at the edges—bands he loved, surfers he idolized, places he wanted to travel to but never got the chance.
No dust on the nightstand. Fresh sheets. Mom keeps it alive. Keeps him alive, in whatever way she can manage.
"Hey, Jake," I say quietly, because silence feels like abandonment.
