Chapter 5 — The House at Night

I still had my key, from managing Dad’s affairs during his illness, and it slid into the lock as easily as ever, though somehow I hadn’t been sure it would.

I stood a moment in the dark entryway before I found the light switch.

The house still smelled like him — wood, sawdust, coffee brewed too strong, and the particular scent of a place lived in comfortably by one person who cared more about living there than updating it.

I turned on the lights and walked slowly through every room, not to inspect anything, just to be there. The kitchen still had the rooster tiles my grandmother had chosen decades ago, the ones Dad never replaced because he liked them.

The living room still held his armchair, angled just so for his bad hip. In the basement, every tool was still outlined neatly on the pegboard, right where it belonged.