PROPERTY OF THE VAULT

After months of slow decline, it was finally over. Eden couldn't process the reality as paramedics wheeled her father's body out the front door and down the driveway into the waiting rig. The hospice nurse silently rubbed her shoulder, offering soothing words that Eden couldn't hear. The silence was deafening, drowned out by the thunderous weight of everything she wished she had done. The house suddenly felt vacant, the air thinning around her. When the nurse finally slipped out, offering a final, quiet promise of support, Eden stood in the hall, alone, unable to move. It was 3:00 AM, and the death was official, yet the immediate aftermath was the silence of a void, not a peaceful sleep. The medical equipment—the tubes, the oxygen tanks, the endless pill bottles—had been neatly removed, leaving behind the clinical smell of disinfectant and an oppressive absence. She should be doing something—calling family, calling a lawyer, crumbling into a heap—but all she could do was stare at the faint indentation in the carpet where his favorite reading chair used to sit. Her dad had been diagnosed with cancer four years ago. They had changed their diets, he'd had surgery, and he was in recovery until about a year ago, when a stubborn cough he couldn't shake brought them back to the hospital. Another scan revealed more than one tumor on his left lung. As an only child, she was now completely alone. Her mother had succumbed to addiction and walked out of their lives years ago. Eden could barely breathe, the sheer volume of responsibilities crashing down on her. Her father had helped with the mortgage, but with him gone, she had no idea how she would keep their house. Under different circumstances, she might let it go, but the house meant everything to him, and by extension, to her. It wasn't a stately manor like the ones dotting the rest of Oak Brook—just a modest, two-story colonial with the slightly faded blue paint he’d spent a summer applying himself. But every floorboard was stability, every windowpane a memory. It was the only place she remembered her father being happy and whole, especially after her mother left. Now, the silence pressed in, a physical weight where the faint beep of medical machines used to be. Every room held a ghost she couldn't afford to lose. ​"I need to call Veronica," she whispered. Pulling up Veronica’s text thread, she pressed the call button. It rang twice and went to voicemail. Instead, she typed a quick message. Veronica had been his daytime caretaker while Eden was at work. "You're probably asleep, and I'm sorry to text this, but Dad has passed. Thank you for all your help.” She saw the "Sent at 3:04 AM" receipt and hoped Veronica wouldn't be upset. Veronica had become the only friend Eden really had outside of the restaurant. Most of her childhood friends had gone to out-of-state colleges, building successful lives. Veronica, who moved to their small town right after high school, had taken a job as a home health professional. This led her to meet Eden and her dad, and Veronica stayed with him through the last six months of his journey. When Eden and her father were searching for help, Eden never would have guessed that the hired caretaker would become one of her closest confidantes. Veronica often stayed late to help Eden settle her father into bed. Afterward, it became their daily ritual to sit down, sip tea, and chat for hours about the day, a small, quiet island of normalcy. One night, Veronica had listened to Eden cry for over an hour after a particularly bad prognosis, never once offering a cliché, just quietly refilling her mug. That night sealed their bond—Veronica understood that sometimes, silence was the only true comfort. Being an only child, Eden was used to bearing responsibilities alone. But this was different. This was a kind of solitude she hadn't expected to face, even without Veronica. She had always assumed she would have a steady boyfriend by now, or maybe that her mother would have returned. Instead, here she was—her father just died, and she felt more alone than she did when he was sick. Growing up, Eden was a good kid. She never drank or experimented with drugs, terrified of slipping into the addiction that had consumed her mother. She did everything she could to be the opposite: good grades, college enrollment—until her dad got sick. She dropped out of college her sophomore year to care for him after his first surgery. He insisted he could handle it, but after speaking with the doctors, she knew better. He had broken his back working to ensure she had one reliable parent after her mother left, and Eden refused to abandon him in his time of need. Now, she was completely alone again. Eden texted her boss at the restaurant that she wouldn't be in tomorrow and would need the following Saturday off for the funeral. She had started waitressing there to help with bills after her dad's surgery; he'd fallen behind, and she picked up the job at "their spot," a diner a few blocks from her childhood home where they often ate. The managers, aware of her circumstances, had hired her immediately. The whole town of Oak Brook, a quiet, moneyed suburb of just under 8,000 people, knew every detail of Eden's life. Her father was a real estate investor, but his focus on modest, local properties meant they lived simply, setting them apart from the affluent Chicago professionals who populated the neighborhood. Growing up, she was the tomboy who never quite fit in. While the wealthy daughters drove new cars and talked about European trips, Eden was often found in the back of the school library, hanging out with the quiet, clever, and proudly geeky kids. They were her reliable island, but their influence couldn't stop the town's relentless gossip. She remembered a party her junior year—a desperate attempt to fit in. One of the popular girls, a blonde named Tiffany, had pointed to Eden's worn denim jacket and scoffed, loud enough for the whole patio to hear, "Is that vintage, or did your dad find it at a foreclosure sale?" The memory still burned. Oak Brook’s affluence was a polished cage, and Eden had always been pressed against the bars, looking in. She decided to stop reminiscing about the past and the things she wished she could change. A sudden, physical wave of nausea hit her, the pure, sickening realization that the entire weight of her life—past, present, and mortgaged future—rested entirely on her. There was no one else to call, no one else to turn to. She went to lay down and immediately succumbed to sobs. The ache in her chest threatened to engulf her, and she begged for sleep. She found it, only to be thrown into a dream of finding her father's body cold and rigid all over again. The air in her lungs felt like concrete. The scent of antiseptic and old linen filled the dark. In the dream, she wasn't just finding him—she was trying to lift him, her small frame straining against his immovable, icy weight. The tears sprung from her eyes, hot against the phantom cold of his skin. The walls of the room began to close in, and the carpet beneath her shifted, turning into damp earth. A booming, low sound—like a heavy door closing—echoed through the darkness, trapping her inside the nightmare with his body. Fear rose in her throat. As if on cue, screaming sobs tore through her body, shaking her awake inside the terror. She had never felt such uncontainable grief. All she could do was scream, because the best part of her world was gone. The bell shrieked, once, twice...