I ended up in her room without deciding to go there.
My feet carried me across the hall, past the kitchen and living room, through the soft hum of morning, into the space that had been hers for decades.
Her chair sat by the window, exactly where it always had. Morning light slanted across the room, dust floating lazily in its path. The shawl she wore every day was folded neatly over the back of the chair, just as she had left it the night before. Her glasses rested on the nightstand, the ones she used to peer over while scolding me or pretending not to read my old stories.
I looked around the room, at the little things that made it hers: the framed photographs of Dad and me as a boy, of her with friends I'd never met, the quilt on the bed that smelled faintly of her perfume, even now.
Everything was untouched. Perfectly in place.
As if she might return any second.
I lowered myself into the chair. It creaked beneath my weight, unfamiliar, wrong.
It wasn't mine.
I ran my hands along the armrests, searching for warmth, for the quiet presence I had taken for granted for years. There was nothing. Only the faint scent of lavender and tea, the echo of laughter that would never come back.
I pressed my forehead against the back of the chair and let the silence settle fully.
That was when it hit me.
She had waited for me.
For years. For visits I postponed. Calls I rushed. Promises I meant to keep later. And I had come back. I had made it home.
Too late.
I left Willowbrook for New York. For dreams. For Lena. And in doing so, I had left her waiting until this morning, when she finally slipped away.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm so sorry, Grandma."
I imagined her sitting in her chair again, smiling faintly, looking at me like she always did, as if nothing mattered except that I was present. And I hadn't stayed.
The clock ticked on the wall, steady and cruel, reminding me that time did not stop for grief. Life continued, even when she did not.
The room felt smaller as I looked around. Framed photographs. A quilt folded carefully on the bed. Little pieces of a life that had quietly revolved around mine. Every object seemed to accuse me of the same truth.
I had left.
I had promised myself that this journey was worth it. That New York, that Lena, that life outside the small town, justified the distance. But now, with her gone, the justification felt empty. Hollow.
Tears burned my eyes, but I didn't let them fall. I sat there, hollow, the guilt so thick it pressed against my chest until breathing felt like work.
She waited. I came. And I still betrayed her.
There was nothing to undo. No way back. Only this room, frozen in time, and the unbearable knowledge that love did not protect you from regret.
I stayed in the chair until the sun shifted across the floor and the dust continued dancing, unaware that the world had changed.
I stood before the guilt could root me there completely. If I stayed longer, I knew I would break. And there was no space for breaking yet.
Not with everything still ahead of us.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The burial happened faster than I expected.
Grief did not pause the world. It scheduled itself neatly between phone calls, paperwork, and quiet instructions from people who barely knew her but knew exactly how death should be handled.
The sky was overcast, heavy and pale. The cemetery smelled of damp earth. I stood beside Dad as the coffin was lowered into the ground. My hands stayed at my sides, stiff, useless.
I watched the rope slide. I listened to the sound of dirt hitting wood.
That sound stayed with me.
People murmured condolences. Neighbors. Old friends. Faces I recognized but could not place. I nodded when expected. Thanked them when appropriate. Everything felt distant, as if I were watching myself from somewhere far away.
When it was my turn, I took the shovel.
The dirt was heavier than I expected.
Each scoop landed with a dull thud. Final. Unforgiving. No poetry in it. No comfort. Just gravity and reality and the undeniable truth that this was happening whether I was ready or not.
I did not cry.
Not when the coffin disappeared beneath the soil. Not when Dad's shoulders slumped beside me. Not when the last prayer ended and people began to drift away.
I stood there until my hands ached and my chest felt tight, staring at the mound of earth that marked where she now rested.
She had waited for me.
And now there was nowhere left to wait.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
I called Josh that evening.
I stood in the backyard while the house behind me hummed with quiet exhaustion. The phone rang longer than I expected.
"Yeah?" Josh answered. His voice sounded normal. Too normal.
"It's me," I said.
There was a pause. "I know."
"She's gone," I added, because saying it felt necessary. Because part of me needed him to react.
"I heard," he said. "Dad texted earlier."
That was it.
No crack in his voice. No silence heavy with shock. Just acceptance.
"Oh," I said, stupidly.
Another pause. "I'm sorry, man," Josh said. "I really am."
I waited for more. For anger. For grief. For something to match the weight sitting in my chest.
Instead, he exhaled. "She had a good life. She was tired. You were there at the end. That matters."
It felt like being pushed gently when I was already standing on the edge of something.
"I shouldn't have left," I said. The words slipped out before I could stop them. "I should've stayed."
Josh was quiet for a moment. "You couldn't have known."
"But I did," I said. "I just thought there'd be more time."
"Yeah," he replied. "We all do."
His voice softened then, but it still didn't break. "Listen, I'll come back as soon as I can. But don't do that thing where you blame yourself for everything. She wouldn't want that."
I swallowed. "Okay."
"Get some rest," he added. "We'll talk later."
The call ended.
I stared at my phone long after the screen went dark.
I had expected devastation. I got calm. I got reason. I got distance.
And somehow, that hurt more.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The house was quiet that night.
Too quiet.
I sat in the living room, across from her empty chair. Moonlight spilled through the window, casting soft shadows across the floor. The clock ticked. The refrigerator hummed. The house breathed around me.
Coming back had not undone leaving.
I thought of New York. Of Lena. Of all the moments I chose elsewhere over here. None of them felt wrong when I made them. None of them felt forgivable now.
Love had not protected me from loss.
It had led me straight into it.
I leaned back against the couch and closed my eyes. The guilt settled into me slowly, not sharp, but constant. Something I knew I would carry into whatever came next.
Home was the same.
I was not.
And nothing, not time, not distance, not apology, could change that.
I stayed there in the dark, listening to the house exist without her, understanding fully that some goodbyes are permanent.
And knowing that this knowledge, this weight, would follow me long after Willowbrook faded behind me again.