I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, steeling myself with a few deep breaths. Splinters pricked my fingertips as I clawed at the wall and squeezed my eyes tight, fighting back memories of all the times I played in my mother’s wardrobe or sat on her footstool while she braided or brushed my hair. She had nursed me in that room through many ailments, insisting I would rest easier sleeping in her bed, with her warmth to soothe me. A shiver shimmied down my spine. She died in that bed. It was only natural my father would be there.
I pressed my lips together and tiptoed over to the door. I could barely make out my father’s silhouette in the pale light of the single candle burning on the windowsill like a beacon, silently calling my mother’s soul back to the place she so loved. I took
