The house had grown quieter, but not empty.
Memories clung to the walls like shadows—faint but ever-present. Daniel found them in the creak of the floorboard near the kitchen, where Noah used to leap over the "lava square." He found them in the faint coffee stain on the corner of the counter, the one Eliza kept forgetting to scrub.
He hadn't touched their things. Eliza's coat still hung on the hook. Her favorite scarf, the red one she wore in winter, still smelled faintly of her vanilla shampoo. Noah's tiny shoes rested by the front mat—mud-stained, worn, but waiting.
Every morning, Daniel wandered through the house like a ghost of himself. He opened the curtains just how Eliza did, careful not to snag the fabric. He turned on the kettle, though he rarely drank the tea. He wandered into Noah's room and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the stuffed giraffe left in mid-hug.
He spoke to them. Softly. Every day.
"Morning, kiddo. It's sunny today… You'd have begged to ride your bike, huh?"
"Eliza… I can't find the strength to throw out the milk. It expired a week ago, but I… I couldn't."
He started writing letters. Dozens of them, folded and tucked into a wooden box. Some were confessions, others just daily updates. In one, he wrote about how he dreamed of Eliza brushing Noah's hair before bed. In another, he confessed that he still slept on just his half of the bed.
He even began a new painting—his first since the accident.
The canvas was blank for weeks. But one night, after waking from a vivid dream where Eliza stood at the end of the hallway, smiling but saying nothing, he dipped the brush into cobalt blue and began to paint a door.
Just a door.
Wooden, old. Familiar.
And open—just slightly.
The act of painting helped, but it also unspooled memories he hadn't dared revisit.
He remembered one evening, two months before the accident, when Eliza sat curled on the couch, watching Noah build a fort from pillows.
"We don't get forever," she'd said softly, as if to herself.
Daniel had looked up from his laptop. "Hmm?"
She smiled faintly. "Just thinking. Sometimes I wish we could press pause. Keep him this small. Keep everything… right here."
Now, Daniel understood. She'd felt the preciousness of time slipping even then. As if her soul knew something her mind hadn't.
One rainy afternoon, he found an old voice memo on his phone. He didn't even remember recording it.
Eliza's voice played softly:
"Noah, tell Daddy what we're doing today."
"We're making pancakes and then I'm gonna beat you in Uno!"
"Say we love him."
"We love you, Daddy!"
Daniel clutched the phone to his chest, tears running freely.
"I love you too," he whispered.
He started leaving the porch light on every night. Just in case.
Some nights, he thought he heard footsteps on the porch. Once, the wind knocked over a potted plant, and he swore he heard someone whisper his name. Each time, he rushed to the door.
Nothing.
But he couldn't stop. He wouldn't.
He left the front door unlocked for the first time in months.
Not because he was careless—but because he was still waiting.