The stairs creak in the same places they always have. Down the hall, second door on the left.
My room.
I push open the door. It's exactly as I left it.
Queen sized bed with the white iron frame. The dresser with the drawer that sticks. The window seat overlooking the lake where I used to write in journals and pretend I was profound. Even the books on the shelf are the same—battered paperbacks I read and reread every summer.
I drop my bag on the bed and that's when I see him.
Bones.
He's sitting in the center of the pillow, perfectly placed, like he's been waiting for me to come back for him. The stuffed toy I've had since I was five. The one I left here that last summer because I thought I was too old for stuffed animals.
My throat closes.
I pick him up, press my face into his worn fur, and memories crash over me in waves. I sink onto the bed, Bones clutched to my chest, and stare at the ceiling. The same ceiling I stared at through a thousand summer nights. The same water stains in the corner that look vaguely like a dragon if you squint.
I doze off because the next thing I know, voices are drifting up through the floorboards.
Doors opening and closing. Footsteps. The murmur of conversation. The clatter of dishes being set down.
The house is filling up. I sit up slowly, disoriented, Bones still in my lap.
How long was I out? Ten minutes? An hour?
The light coming through the window has shifted, grown longer, more golden.
Downstairs, someone laughs. The sound is quickly hushed, then resumes quieter. I should go down. Show my face. Be present.
But for just a moment longer, I sit here in this room that remembers me, holding a toy that's seen every version of who I've been, and let myself feel the weight of coming home to a place that refuses to let you pretend you're someone else.
When I eventually muster up the energy to go downstairs, the house is crowded with people still in their funeral attire. The dining table is covered with food no one's really eating—casseroles and pies and the kind of dishes people make when they don't know what else to do.
People stand in clusters, sharing stories in hushed tones, laughing quietly at memories that hurt and heal in equal measure.
I step outside for air, my shoes crunching softly against the gravel as I make my way down to the dock.
The lake stretches out in front of me, calm and endless, catching the late afternoon light.
For the first time since I landed, I can breathe.
Until my phone rings and Wes’ name lights up the screen.
I stare at his name for a long moment before answering.
His voice is clipped, irritated in that controlled way he has.
"Seriously, when are you coming back?"
"I don't know yet."
"You don't know?" A pause. "We have the studio meeting on Tuesday. You need to be there."
"I'm at a funeral, Wes."
"I understand that. But life doesn't stop because—" He catches himself, adjusts his tone. "I'm just saying we need to stay on schedule. Filming starts in three weeks."
My stomach twists. My free hand curls into a fist at my side.
