It's strange how grief changes the way you see things.

After my wife, Sarah, passed away, I couldn't stay in the city anymore.

Too many reminders, corners and cafes haunted by memories I wasn't ready to face.

People kept telling me Ellie was young enough to adapt, that kids are resilient. memories I wasn't ready to face.

People kept telling me Ellie was young enough to adapt, that kids are resilient, but I could

see it in her eyes.

She didn't fully understand why Mommy wasn't coming home.

Neither did I.

So we moved back to Alders Creek, a small town I'd grown up in, to live in the house

my parents had left me before they passed.

It was a quiet place, nestled on the edge of sprawling woods that stretched for miles. Sarah was never one for the countryside.

That was part of the reason we never lived here ourselves, even though we had a house.

Yet to me, it felt familiar, comforting in a distant, numb sort of way.

I convinced myself the silence was what we needed,

or at least room to pretend that everything wasn't falling apart.

I hadn't been back here in nearly 20 years,

but some things never change.

Alders Creek was exactly as I remembered it.

One main road, a diner, a grocery store, and clusters of houses scattered along the edge

of the thick woodland.

The townsfolk were kind, if a bit distant. They remembered

me vaguely, the kid who left the college and never really looked back. They offered

...