I drove. The roads unwound slowly through thinning trees. The sky sagged like old fruit, bruised and overripe. My side ached with every bump, every corner. I kept the radio off. I didn’t want music. I didn’t want noise.

I wanted to remember, and I did. I remembered waking at four every Christmas morning to bake cinnamon rolls before Grayson patted down the stairs in his footed pajamas. I remembered selling my engagement ring, the one Thomas gave me after saving up for seven months, so Grayson could pay for his first semester of college. I remembered holding his hand when they set the bone in his shattered leg. I remembered standing like marble at Thomas’s funeral because my son needed someone solid. I remembered every single thing.

I pulled into our neighborhood as the light waned and shadows stretched thin across the sidewalks—same painted porches, same trimmed hedges, same soft glow from windows that didn’t know what rejection felt like. I turned into the driveway of the house that used to be mine. The porch light was on, curtains drawn, front step swept clean. I stepped out, one hand clutching the canvas bag, the other bracing my ribs.

My key was cold in my palm. I pushed it into the lock. It didn’t fit. I tried again and again. Nothing. I knocked once, then again. Movement behind the curtain.

“Grayson,” I called, my voice barely above the breeze.