The guest room smelled faintly of old wood and dust, a place that had once been his secret world, a playground for a boy who had nothing else.
Ethan moved slowly, eyes scanning the familiar corners, the worn carpet where he had played, the shelves lined with boxes of forgotten toys and keepsakes.
Each step stirred echoes of laughter long gone.
He stopped in front of a small shelf, a framed photograph catching the dim light.
He reached out, fingers brushing the glass, dust motes dancing in the air.
It was him, younger, flanked by his mother and father, all smiles frozen in a moment he could no longer reach.
A tremor ran through his chest as he traced the outline of his mother's face. "If you were here, Mom…" His voice faltered, barely audible. "You'd understand me better than anyone. You'd never let me be buried here… alone."
The words cracked, a tear sliding down his cheek.
