Eventually I started leaving the doors open instead.

I cannot fully explain the logic of it except that a closed door felt like a decision, like an agreement I was signing that they were gone for good, and an open door felt like leaving a light on for someone who might still come home.

Looking into their rooms hurt every single time.

But looking at the blank face of a closed wooden door hurt in a worse way, a final way, and I could not bear the finality.

I understand how it must have looked from outside — a woman keeping two shrines, unable to move a single object in three years, clearly stuck, clearly in need of help moving on.