Going back
The next morning, we woke early, not because anyone wanted to, but because we had to. The house had taken on that particular hush that comes with endings. The fire was out, the kitchen smelled like coffee and closing time, and no one spoke louder than they had to. One by one, we emerged from our rooms, hair messy, socks mismatched, hoodies zipped up halfway, as if we could pretend it was just another slow, cozy morning. But it wasn’t. The lake house was quieter than usual. Maybe it was the way the suitcases had reappeared by the doors, or how the mugs of tea stayed warm but untouched. We were leaving. And we all knew it. Arthur was in the kitchen, humming while flipping eggs in a pan. “Last breakfast,” he said, still trying to sound cheerful. But even his voice carried a softness that ha
- Writer
