Crystalware. Rugs. Kitchen appliances still sealed in their original packaging. An entire exhibition of money spent by people who’d confused buying things with accomplishing something.

By sunset, the guest house stood empty.

Every room echoed.

I walked through it once—not out of sentiment, but to confirm that nothing belonging to Nancy had been left behind.

Then I walked away.

The storage facility sat near the interstate, where trucks passed all through the night and the air carried the faint smell of diesel and damp concrete.