At one point, she found a picture of herself at twelve, sitting on the porch steps, a cracked ceramic cat in her lap. He must’ve taken it. She couldn’t remember him ever owning a camera. Her thumb hovered over the photo, unsure if she should keep it or toss it. She kept it.
By the third day, the bitterness started to creep in. He hadn’t left a letter. Not one. No final words. No explanation. Just the house and a key to the attic. A month ago, she’d been living her life—a cramped one, sure, but a life with emails and rent and a too-small couch and frozen dinners and silence she chose.