He never told me whose house it was.
He said it belonged to someone who wasn’t using it yet.”
I opened the gate.
The key fit the lock on the first try.
The door swung inward without resistance, as though it had been expecting this.
Inside, the house smelled of clean wood and something faintly floral — a candle, recently burned.
Someone had been here to prepare it.
The floors were swept.
The windows were clear.
On the kitchen counter, a small vase held three white flowers.
“He arranged that,” Daniel said from behind me.
“He asked Mr.
Hale to have someone come in the week before — before he passed.
He wanted it to be ready.”
I walked through the front room slowly.
A sofa.
Two armchairs.
A fireplace with a clean grate.
On the mantelpiece, one framed photograph.
I crossed the room and picked it up.
It was the same photograph Daniel had shown me.
Thomas, young, standing in front of this house.
But this was the original — larger, clearer.
