Late afternoon light spills through the living room window, thin and dusty, like it is tired of trying.
I hear the door before I see him.
Not a knock. Just the sound of the lock turning. Familiar enough to make my chest tighten before my brain catches up. I stand too fast, chair legs scraping against the floor, heart bracing for something it cannot name.
Josh steps inside like he never really left.
Same slouch. Same habit of kicking the door shut with his heel instead of using his hand. But everything else about him feels different, even though it's been only a few days since I last saw him. He is taller than I remember, thinner too. His face has lost its softness, and there is something guarded in his eyes that was not there before.
Not sadness.
Control.
He scans the house quickly, efficient, like someone checking exits. When his eyes land on me, he pauses.
"Oh," he says. Then, after a beat, "You look the same."
I let out a breath I did not realize I was holding. "You don't."
A corner of his mouth lifts, not quite a smile. "Guess time works selectively."
We stand there, the space between us crowded with things neither of us says. No rush forward. No hug. No collapse into shared grief. Just two people measuring the damage in silence.
I wait for it.
The crack in his voice. The red-rimmed eyes. Something that tells me we are standing on the same ground.
It does not come.
Josh drops his bag near the door. "Dad around?"
"In the back," I say. "Garden."
He nods. "Figures."
He takes a few steps, then stops. His eyes flick toward the hallway. Toward Grandma's room.
Nothing changes on his face.
No flinch. No hesitation. Just acknowledgment. Like noticing a door that has been closed for a while.
Something cold settles in my stomach.
"You just got here," I say. "You don't want to…"
"I'll see him later," Josh says, already shrugging off his jacket. "I'm tired."
The word lands wrong. Not grief-tired. Not bone-deep exhaustion.
Just done.
He moves through the living room, eyes taking in the furniture, the old photos, the crooked clock Grandma refused to replace. I can tell he sees everything. He just does not let it touch him.
"How was the trip?" I ask.
"Long."
"College?"
He exhales, almost a laugh. "We'll get there."
Deflection. Clean and practiced.
I swallow. "Josh. Grandma…"
"I know," he says, calm and firm, like he is shutting a door before it can creak open. "You already told me on the phone."
Silence stretches.
I realize then that he does not look younger. Or smaller. He looks like someone who already finished grieving something I am still choking on.
"You okay?" he asks.
The question feels absurd.
"Define okay."
He nods once. "Yeah."
He walks past me toward the hallway. Pauses, then adds without turning around, "I'm gonna grab a shower."
And just like that, he is gone.
The house feels emptier than it did before he arrived.
I sink back into the chair. A minute later, the sound of running water fills the walls. The same walls that have absorbed years of raised voices, quiet apologies, and Grandma humming while she cooked.
This is not what I imagined.
I thought his return would make the loss feel shared. Lighter. Instead, it feels sharper.
Josh did not come back to sit in the ruins.
He came back already finished with them.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The kitchen smells faintly of old coffee and antiseptic, like the house has not decided what it is anymore.
Josh sits at the table, one leg hooked around the chair, scrolling through his phone like he is killing time in a waiting room. His hair is still damp. He looks cleaner, lighter, and impossibly distant.
I lean against the counter, arms folded.
"So," I say, keeping my voice even, "did you go?"
He does not look up. "Go where?"
I sigh. "Mom's wedding."
That gets his attention. He glances at me slowly, like he is deciding how much effort I am worth.
"Is that what you think I did?"
"She got married," I say. "To… you know."
I do not say the name.
Josh does.
"Richard."
No venom. No bitterness. Just a flat sound, like tapping ash into a tray.
"So you went?" I ask.
He locks his phone and sets it face down. "Yes. But not for that."
"For what then?"
"To get my documents."
I blink. "Documents?"
"Birth certificate. Academic records. Things she kept in her important drawer." His fingers make faint air quotes. "I figured if I did not get them now, I would have to ask later. And I am not doing that."
"You did not even attend?" I ask.
"I showed up," he says. "Waited until the ceremony was done. Listened to Richard's friends talk about quarterly profits and how tasteful the flowers were. Grabbed what I needed and left."
He pauses, then adds mildly, "The man has the personality of an Excel sheet."
I almost laugh. Then the weight of it settles.
"And Mom?" I ask.
His eyes flicker once.
"Logistics only," he says. "She asked where I have been. I said busy. She asked about college. I said fine. She cried a little. I did not stay for that part."
My chest tightens. "Josh…"
"I'm done," he says quietly. Not angry. Not cold. Certain. "Completely."
The word presses down on the room.
"You cannot just…" I stop. I do not know what I was going to say. You will regret it. She is still your mother.
He watches my hesitation.
"I am not angry," he says. "If I was angry, this would be loud. Messy. I'm just ending this chapter my own way."
He taps the table once.
"I ran when I was thirteen," he adds. "This is different."
He stands and rinses his cup in the sink. His movements are steady. No second-guessing.
"I will not be staying long," he says, back still turned.
The words hit harder than anything else.
I realize something ugly then. A small, shameful thought I do not want but can't deny.
Part of me envies him.
Josh didn't come back to reconnect.
He came back to close doors quietly, before they could hurt him again.
And as I stand there, listening to the water run, I know with sinking certainty that once he leaves this time, he may never look back.