I took a deep breath before knocking on the door.
The air smelled like damp wood and lake water, thick with memories I didn't want to unpack yet. My knuckles rapped the old wood gently once, twice, three times. And then, I waited.
When the door creaked open, I saw him, my father.
He stood still, hand still on the doorframe, eyes widened just slightly like he'd seen a ghost.
"Marie," he breathed, the word catching somewhere between relief and disbelief.
I didn't say anything. I just looked at him. And maybe that silence said more than I ever could.
He stepped aside and gestured for me to come in. I crossed the threshold slowly, as if, if I moved too fast, everything might collapse.
The inside of the house hadn't changed. Wooden beams overhead, the same navy couch, the fireplace that never really worked right. It was like stepping into a memory that refused to fade.
We sat.
In silence.
