March arrived like a door opening.
The city was still cold, but the light had changed—softer, longer, the kind of gold that promised spring was somewhere on the horizon. The key to Adrian's grandmother's house sat on my nightstand, warm in the morning sun, waiting.
"We don't have to go," Adrian said for the tenth time.
"We do."
"It's going to be painful."
"Probably."
"There are memories there I've buried."
"Then we'll dig them up together."
He stood at the window, looking out at the city, hands in his pockets. His shoulders were tight. His jaw was tighter. He looked like a man preparing for battle.
"Adrian."
He turned.
"It's just a house," I said. "It can't hurt you."
"It's not the house I'm afraid of."
"What, then?"
"Who I was when I was there."
I crossed the room. Took his
