He goes to the cabin.
Of course he does.
I've always known he would come here eventually. The man who never let himself grieve finally runs out of things to do, and there's only one place left to go.
The vines have claimed most of the exterior wall now—thick green ropes of them winding through the eaves, pushing through the window frames. The door barely holds when he pushes it open.
Creaks. Just like it always did.
Inside, the air is old and cold and full of dust that floats up when he steps through the threshold. Moonlight falls through the broken window in a single pale column. In it, the motes drift like they've been waiting for someone to disturb them.
I drift through the wall after him. I've been here a thousand times in five years. I know every corner, every collapsed shelf, e
