The Space He Left Behind
The mansion was too quiet.
The kind of quiet that presses against your chest until breathing feels like work.
When I pushed the heavy door open, the air inside smelled faintly of cedar and memory. My father’s world had always been too big for me marble floors that echoed, chandeliers that hummed when the wind shifted. But tonight it just looked tired, stripped of life, like it knew he wasn’t coming back.
I stood in the doorway longer than I should have, clutching the single suitcase that held everything I’d brought home. My heels clicked softly against the floor as I stepped inside. The silence followed me like a shadow.
I’d told myself I was ready. Ready to face the house, ready to face the grief. But nothing prepares you for absence that loud.
The portraits on the wall watched as I passed. My father’s younger self in one, his hand on the shoulder of another man Ethan Devine.
The photo looked old, but Ethan hadn’t changed much. The same calm expression, the same dark, unreadable eyes. I remembered how his voice could fill a room without ever rising.
I hadn’t seen him since the funeral. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to.
The study door was half open. My father’s desk was exactly as he’d left it papers stacked, pen uncapped, a coffee cup still sitting on the edge like he’d step back in any moment. I reached out and touched the arm of his chair. It was cold.
“You shouldn’t be here alone.”
The voice came from behind me. Deep. Steady. Familiar.
I froze.
For a second, I thought I’d imagined it. Then I turned.
Ethan stood in the doorway, dressed in black like the walls had been waiting for him to match them. His hair was darker than I remembered, his jaw tighter. He looked like the kind of man who’d forgotten how to rest.
“Didn’t know you were here,” I managed, my voice small.
“I’ve been here since morning,” he said, stepping inside. “Making sure things were handled.”
“Things?”
“Your father’s affairs. The will. Security. Everything that needs order.” His tone was clipped, but not unkind. “You don’t have to deal with all of this right now.”
I looked at the desk again, my throat tight. “I think I already am.”
Something flickered across his face guilt, maybe. Then he crossed the room and picked up the same photograph I’d noticed earlier. He turned it once between his fingers, then set it down carefully.
“He was proud of you,” he said quietly. “He just… didn’t know how to show it.”
I almost laughed, but it came out broken. “That makes two of you.”
His eyes lifted to mine.
For a moment neither of us spoke. The silence wasn’t empty anymore it pulsed. The kind of silence that carried heat under the skin.
“You look tired,” he said finally. “You should rest. I had the staff prepare your old room.”
“I don’t need taking care of, Ethan.”
“I didn’t say you did.” He straightened, the calm slipping back over him like armor. “But your father trusted me to make sure you’re safe. That hasn’t changed.”
Safe.
The word should’ve comforted me. Instead, it made something twist deep inside.
When he turned toward the door, I caught myself staring at the shape of his shoulders beneath his suit jacket, at how controlled every movement was. The kind of control that dared you to break it.
“Ethan.”
He stopped, his hand on the doorframe, but didn’t turn fully. “Yes?”
I hesitated, the words catching at the back of my tongue. “It’s strange being back here.”
“I know.” His voice dropped lower. “The house remembers everything.”
That sentence shouldn’t have sounded the way it did like a warning and a promise at once.
When he finally left, the air he’d disturbed lingered behind him. I stood there long after, tracing the edge of the photo frame until my fingertips tingled.
Maybe grief was supposed to feel like this heavy, confusing, alive.
Or maybe it was something else entirely.
Because when I closed my eyes, the last thing I saw wasn’t my father.
It was Ethan Devine’s face when he said my name.
That night, I dreamed of him standing at my door silent, waiting, like the house itself had called him back to me.
The rain started after midnight.
It came softly at first, a hush against the windows that filled the hallways with sound. I’d tried to sleep, but the house creaked too much, like it was remembering things out loud.
I threw the blanket aside and padded down the staircase barefoot. The lights were low, just enough to make the shadows move. The smell of coffee drifted faintly from the kitchen.
Ethan was there.
He stood by the counter in a white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, reading something on his phone. The sight made the world tilt for a second because he didn’t look like my father’s friend anymore. He looked younger, more human, too close.
He heard me before I spoke. “You should be asleep.”
“I couldn’t,” I said. “The house is loud.”
His mouth twitched. “It’s old. Every piece of wood has something to say.”
He poured another cup of coffee and held it out without asking. The warmth brushed my fingers when I took it. My pulse jumped at the small contact.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” His eyes studied my face, and for a second I couldn’t breathe. “Grief doesn’t stop just because the world expects you to function.”
“I don’t know what to do with it,” I whispered.
“Don’t do anything with it. Let it pass through you.”
The way he said it quiet, steady pulled something apart inside me. I looked away, focusing on the rain sliding down the window.
He moved closer, just enough for the warmth of him to touch the air between us. “Your father wouldn’t want you lost in this house.”
“I’m not lost,” I said. “Just… different.”
Ethan nodded slowly. “Different can be dangerous.”
“Are you warning me?”
“I’m warning myself.”
That silenced us both. His gaze stayed on mine too long; the space between us felt smaller with every breath.
Finally he stepped back, reclaiming his distance. “Get some rest, Maya.”
I should have obeyed. Instead, I found myself saying softly, “You talk like I still need looking after.”
His expression hardened, but his voice stayed low. “Some habits don’t die easily.”
I watched him leave, his footsteps fading into the hall until I was alone again alone, but not really. The air still carried his warmth, the echo of words I wasn’t sure I was supposed to hear.
“Different can be dangerous.”
He was right. It already was.
Upstairs, the door to my room clicked open by itself, moved by the wind—or maybe by something heavier than that.
