More than forty years had passed since he had allowed himself to even think about it—avoiding it with the kind of quiet discipline people develop when a memory hurts too much to revisit. It wasn’t just a place. It was a fracture. And somewhere deep inside him, something had always known that if he went back, the fracture would open again.
The car slowed without him fully deciding to stop. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, then loosened. A hollow pressure settled in his chest, familiar and unwelcome. Before he could reason himself out of it, he turned the wheel.
The house appeared almost suddenly, as if it had been waiting.
Same number. Same narrow lot. Smaller than he remembered, though somehow heavier.
The paint had peeled away in long strips, exposing tired wood beneath. The windows were clouded with dust, their glass dulled by time and neglect. The roof sagged slightly on one side, like a body that had learned to endure too much without repair.
Daniel turned off the engine but didn’t get out right away.
The silence around him pressed in.