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I glance at the fireplace, its mantel cluttered with the same knickknacks my father insisted were holy reminders. A chipped ceramic angel with outstretched wings stands next to a wooden cross, its edges splintered. I remember dusting them as a little girl, my father standing over me, watching, waiting for me to make a mistake. The belt would hang at his side, a silent warning. “Do it right, Lydia, or pay the price.”

I turn away from the mantel, my gaze landing on the old piano in the corner. My mother used to play it sometimes when my father wasn’t home, her fingers light on the keys, coaxing a melody that felt like sunlight in a house filled with shadows. I tried once, after she was gone, but the sound was hollow, the notes disjointed, and my father told me to stop. “Music has no place here unless it’s for the Lord,” he said, his voice cold and unyielding.

My eyes drift to the bookshelf along the far wall, its shelves bending under stacks of old Bibles and heavy theological books. I remember running my fingers along their spines when I was little, wondering what secrets were locked inside.

Once, I pulled one down, curiosity burning in my hands, only to have him snatch it away, his voice sharp and cold: “Not for you,” he said. “You’ll never understand what it means.”

I shake my head, forcing the memory away. My eyes drift to the cellar door just off the kitchen. It sits slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness visible through the crack. I don’t look too long. Not tonight.

I turn to the stairs.

Each step creaks beneath me, the kind of sound that used to wake him up when I was little. The air thickens the higher I climb, like the past knows I’m coming. At the top, the hallway stretches narrow and still. Same peeling wallpaper. Same crooked picture of a lamb by the window.

But it’s the last door on the right that waits for me.

I open it.

The smell hits first. Dust, fabric, and the faint smell of Baby Soft. The curtains are still drawn halfway, casting a gray wash across the room. Nothing’s been touched.

The bed is unmade, sheets twisted just like that night. My old sneakers still sit beside the closet. One lies on its side, the laces tangled. And there, on the nightstand, is the candlestick. Back in its place. Upright. Clean.

I remember the way my hand shook, wiping it off that night. I scrubbed hard enough to leave the skin raw.

I step inside. The floor whispers under my weight. I don’t sit, don’t speak. Just stand there and stare. The room feels preserved, not by care, but by avoidance. Like the house itself decided to forget. But I didn’t forget. It looks exactly as it did the night everything changed. My closet door is open, hangers askew on the rod from when I ripped my clothes from them. My dresser drawers are still open, one hanging, barely attached by a corner. I was a tornado that night, pulling down everything in my path, needing to pack everything I owned to get the hell out of that house.

This room holds its breath with me.

Then, light.

Headlights flare through the curtains, slicing across the unmade bed and casting long shadows against the far wall. I freeze, the past still clinging to my skin like static.

The crunch of tires on asphalt snaps the moment in two.

I edge toward the hallway, pulse quickening. My feet find the stairs without sound. At the bottom, I cut across the living room, staying low, out of habit. One of the front windows is still half-covered by a sheet. I peel it back and peer out.

A silver sedan glides into the driveway, parking just behind my truck. I straighten. Who could that be? Does my father have friends? The only men I ever saw my father around were the ones who took pleasure in my pain. Would one of them come here?

I don’t wait, I push through the front door just as a man steps out of his car, his dark coat lifting slightly in the breeze. His hair, streaked silver at the temples, catches the light as he studies the house, his eyes moving slow, measured.

I don’t know him, at least, I don’t think I do, but something about him pulls at me, like a shadow brushing the edge of an old memory I can’t quite place.

“Lydia Anderson?” he calls, his voice low and steady, slicing clean through the stillness.

I nod, stepping out a little further onto the porch, my pulse quickening.

He closes the car door and approaches; his hands shoved into his coat pockets. “I’m Frank Myers,” he says, offering a thin-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not sure if you remember me or not, but I used to be in the congregation years back. Heard about your father’s… condition. Thought I’d stop by, see if you needed anything.”

Why is he stopping by? Out of everyone in town. He’s stopping by. I don’t believe he even lives here anymore.

I stiffen, my fingers curling tightly around the railing as I watch him approach. His gait is calculated, and the way his eyes sweep over the yard before landing on me sends a ripple of unease through my chest. Instinct sharpens my focus, every detail about him suddenly amplified. The scuffed leather of his boots, the faint wrinkle in his collar, the too-easy way he stands just a step too close.

“Thanks, but we’re fine,” I reply, keeping my tone cool.

“You sure?” Frank asks, his smile tightening, his hands remaining buried in his pockets. Something about his posture feels rehearsed, like a man trying to sell me something I already know I don’t want.

“Positive,” I say, my voice hardening. I straighten, my grip loosening on the railing as I square my shoulders. “We’ve got everything handled.”

His eyes narrow, the smile faltering for a split second, and it’s in that crack that my instincts press harder. Something about him doesn’t fit. The way his voice dips when he says “condition,” like he’s savoring the word, or how he seems to linger in his movements, unhurried but heavy with purpose. “Do you mind if I take a minute and say hello to your father?”