The house looked smaller than I remembered. Grief had a way of shrinking things, pressing edges inward until everything felt tight and half real. Leah walked beside me without speaking, her presence steady and warm. I wished the warmth would soak into me. It didn’t. My insides felt like frost.
We stepped through the front door, and I braced myself for the smell of antiseptic and old heartbreak. Instead, the house smelled exactly like it always had. Coffee. Lavender. Dust no one ever admitted existed. My mother had scrubbed this place within an inch of its life every week, but dust always won. I used to tease her about it. Now the memory felt like a bruise I kept pressing without meaning to.
“Do you want me to grab the bags from the truck.” Leah asked.
“No. I need to do this myself.” I s
