I hadn't been back to the house in almost two years, not since I left for college.

The siding was more weather worn than I remembered, and the porch steps creaked louder under

my weight.

Everything about it looks smaller, sun faded and tired.

My parents didn't live there anymore.

After the divorce, they held onto it out of some quiet, mutual guilt, neither one wanting

to be the one to let it go.

But now that I was technically an adult, they said it was time.

I was only there to collect what was mine.

A few boxes, maybe a crate of old clothes, some books, and whatever junk I had left behind in the attic.

The idea was simple. Go in, pack, leave. But nothing about stepping through

that door felt simple. The living room still had that hollow smell, a mix of dust and

old couch fabric. Most of the furniture was already gone, but my feet still

knew where to walk, where not to. I climbed the attic ladder slowly, not because it was steep

or broken, but because I didn't want to see what was up there. The attic had always felt stuck in time.

Boxes were stacked along the walls, all of them labelled in my mom's handwriting.

Winter clothes, kitchen stuff.

There was one that just said toys.

The marker had bled into the cardboard from years of moisture. I peeled it open

and sifted through it lazily. The first thing I saw was an old set of plastic binoculars,

bright green with one cracked lens and a faded strap.

I remember using them in the backyard with Daniel, calling out pretent sightings of exotic animals,

...