Dictated Moans

Sorting

The key stuck in the lock at first, stubborn from years of use. Cassie jiggled it gently, the metal scraping against the pins until the mechanism gave way with a soft click. She pushed the door open slowly, stepping into the quiet stillness.

Her childhood home!

She had lived here, before moving away, for as long as she could remember. Their father, now a fading memory, bought the house when the owner was downsizing. Cassie had been five at the time, but she could still picture her father on a ladder, painting the walls of her bedroom pink. She missed him.

The air smelled faintly of lavender, her mother's favorite scent and dust, as if time had been paused, not passed. Sunlight filtered through the purple curtains in the living room, casting soft shadows on the hardwood floor. Everything was just as she remembered—familiar yet distant, like a dream she’d had too many times to believe was real.

Cassie dropped her purse on the table and stood in the hallway, letting the memories come. The coat rack, slightly crooked from the time Asher had knocked it over during a game of tag. Four framed photographs: One with the four of them, Cassie softly perched on her father's laps, another one with three of them smiling-Mom, Asher and her-taken before everything started fray. A picture of her mom and dad sat beside that. The last one had Cassie and Asher in it. Cassie was carrying what used to be her favorite bunny. The blue flowered wallpaper, still dotted with faded marks from where Cassie had measured her height every year until she left was peeling at the edges.

She wandered into the kitchen. The old ceramic cookie jar still sat on the counter, shaped like a plump cat with a chipped ear. She opened it out of instinct, half expecting to find one of her mother’s homemade shortbreads inside. But it was empty.

Cassie opened a few drawers; some filled with neatly arranged cutlery, others cluttered with paperclips, batteries, and rubber bands. The quiet tick of the wall clock was the only sound that accompanied her as she moved from room to room.

Upstairs, her old bedroom door creaked open. The posters were gone, but the pale outlines remained on the walls. The blue paint had slightly faded, she had repainted when she turned fifteen. Her desk was still there, though it now held boxes of sewing materials and fabric scraps. She sat on the bed, springs creaking beneath her, and ran her hand across the faded quilt her mother had made when she was eight.

Cassie exhaled, her chest tightening. There had been so much anger when she left. So many words shouted and unsaid. And now, there was only the echo of what might’ve been different.

Eventually, she made her way to the attic. The wooden stairs groaned under her weight, and she had to duck to avoid hitting her head on the low ceiling. The attic was warm and dim, lit only by a small, dusty window. Boxes were stacked against the walls, labeled in her mother’s neat, slanted handwriting.

Cassie pulled one down at random. Inside were old photographs, newspaper clippings, and greeting cards. She flipped through them with care, smiling at some, frowning at others. Then she noticed a smaller, shoebox-sized container tucked behind a stack of books.

She opened it-and froze. Inside were letters. Dozens of them. Each one addressed to her, but none had ever been sent.

Her hands trembled as she picked one up and unfolded it.

Dear Cassie,

I saw a girl at the market today who looked just like you. She had that same frown of concentration when she was picking tomatoes. I almost said hello, thinking it was you. I miss you more than I let myself admit. I wish I knew how to say that without sounding like I’m making excuses.

Mom (12th August)

This was dated three months after she left. Cassie blinked back tears and picked up another.

Dear Cassie,

It’s your birthday today. I baked a cake. I know you won’t be here, but I needed to do something. I put your favorite, vanilla frosting with the little silver sprinkles. I hope you’re eating something sweet wherever you are. I’m sorry we haven't talked this month. Or the month before that. I should’ve called. I just didn’t know what to say.

Love, always,

Mom (13th, November)

She read letter after letter, some short and filled with guilt, others long and rambling, trying to explain the past. There were no justifications; just a kind of raw honesty that made her mother feel closer than she had in years.

Cassie sat down on the wooden floor, the letters spilling around her like petals. The attic was warm, the air thick with old memories and a kind of aching she hadn’t expected. She pressed one of the letters to her chest, curled in on herself, and cried.

It wasn’t a loud cry. It was more like a long exhale that had been building inside her for years. She cried for what was lost. For what had never been said. For a mother she had misunderstood, and for the daughter she had once been, waiting for love to be shown in the right way.

Time blurred in that space between grief and grace. When she finally sat up, her cheeks were streaked with tears and her fingers smudged with ink. She gathered the letters gently, placing them back in the box as if tucking them in for sleep. She could not deal with all these emotions now so she decided to explore the other rooms.

As she stood to leave, she turned and looked around the attic, at the boxes, the dust, the forgotten corners. She saw not just her mother’s life, but a piece of her own, hidden in the spaces between the things left behind.

On her way upstairs, Cassie paused by the window at the end of the hallway. From there, she could see the backyard. The swing Asher had built still hung from the old oak tree. The garden was overgrown, but she could make out the outline of the vegetable patch her mother had tended with quiet devotion.

And for the first time in years, Cassie didn’t feel like an outsider here.

Despite the walls that had witnessed fights and silence… despite the doors she had once slammed behind her… she still loved this house.

A wish, fragile and unexpected, stirred in her chest. What if she stayed and lived in this house? Not forever—maybe just a little while. Long enough to breathe. To remember. To reclaim something she hadn’t realized she’d lost.

She whispered it to the still air. “I could live here.” The words felt impossible but welcoming

In the kitchen, she made tea in the old kettle and stood barefoot, watching it boil. The floor creaked beneath her feet, and she smiled. She thought about repainting the living room. About clearing out the clutter, airing out the rooms, planting new flowers in the garden. Maybe, just maybe.

She took her tea to the front porch and sat on the steps, letting the breeze play with her hair. The air was warmer, unlike at the airport. And though grief sat beside her like an old friend, it no longer felt like a weight she couldn’t carry.

She sipped her tea and looked out at B Street, her heart both breaking and healing all at once. The sorting could wait for a few minutes.