I came back to the house three days after my mother's funeral.
No one asked me to.
No one expected me to.
The house stood at the end of Larkspur Road, just as it always had—narrow, pale, and leaning slightly to the left, as if tired of holding itself upright. The windows were dark. The porch light was off. For the first time in my life, it did not feel like home.
I unlocked the door with the same key I had carried since I was sixteen. The lock resisted me for a moment, then gave in with a soft click that echoed too loudly in the empty hallway.
The smell hit me immediately.
Dust. Old wood. And something faintly metallic, like rain soaked into rust.
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. The sound felt final. As if I had sealed myself in.
"Hello?" I called, out of habit.
The house answered with silence.
My mother used to say houses remembered people. That walls absorbed voices, footsteps, even thoughts. As a child, I believed her completely. As an adult, I told myself it was just a poetic way of talking about memories.
Standing there now, suitcase still in my hand, I wasn't so sure.
The furniture was covered with white sheets. My footsteps stirred dust into the air, making the afternoon light look hazy and unreal. I passed the living room, the kitchen, the narrow staircase leading upstairs.
Everything looked smaller.
Or maybe I had just grown heavier.
I set my suitcase down in my old bedroom. The door creaked in the same place it always had. The bed was still there. The desk. Even the small crack in the wall above the light switch.
Someone—probably my aunt—had cleaned. But no one had lived here since my mother died.
I sat on the edge of the bed and pressed my palms into my knees.
"I'm only staying one night," I whispered. "Just to sort things out."
The house did not respond.
But somewhere above me, I heard a soft, careful footstep.