I placed the dining table in a brighter room.
I donated the velvet chair my mother used to sit in while deciding which of my belongings Marissa deserved.
The empty space it left felt better than any replacement.
For weeks, I still listened for footsteps outside my bedroom.
I still checked my drawers before leaving the house.
Whenever my phone rang, my stomach tightened before I saw the name.
Ownership changed in one recorded document.
Safety took longer.
One evening, I sat alone at the kitchen table with my father’s watch ticking against my wrist.
My bag rested on the chair beside me.
My car key lay near the door.
Nothing was hidden.
Nothing needed to be defended.
The house was silent.
For the first time, silence did not mean I was being ignored, underestimated, or prepared for another loss.
It meant no one was taking anything.
It meant the door was locked.
It meant I was home.
