I step over the threshold.
And suddenly, I’m eight years old again, running through the hallway with socks sliding across the polished floors. Braden isahead of me, shouting something about a dragon in the kitchen. Logan’s voice echoes behind us, laughing, teasing, always close.
It all rushes back in a wave I’m not ready for.
The living room is just as we left it. The sun has dipped behind the trees, casting golden light through the sheer curtains, dust dancing in the quiet. Braden’s favorite blanket is still thrown over the back of the couch—slightly frayed, stitched with Mom’s initials.
No one’s touched it.
Everything waits.
My knees nearly buckle, but Logan's hand finds the small of my back, steadying me.
I glance at Logan. His eyes are on me.
Always on me.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
I nod, even if my chest feels like it’s being unraveled, thread by thread.
“Yeah, it’s just…”
Tears blur my vision, but I blink them away. “God, it’s stupid. I didn’t think it would hit me like this.” Logan turns me gently until I’m facing him. Him thumb brushes under my eye. “It’s not stupid. You lost so much here. But you also had everything. It’s okay to feel both.”
I close my eyes for a second. Just breathing him in. The past. The present. This house might be full of ghosts, but right now—it’s also full of him. And that changes everything.
“I used to dream about walking back through that door,” I admit, eyes still closed. “But in every dream, Braden was waiting.”
Silence stretches between us.
“He is.” Logan whispers. “In the creak of the stairs. In the music that still lives in the walls. In the way you smile when you still talk about this place. He’s here, Mac. He never really left.”
My breath catches. And then, with a soft exhale I lean into him.
His voice is barely a whisper. “You don’t have to talk about it, Mac. But if you ever want to… I’m here.”
“I know,” I say. And I do. God, I do.
This is more than enough.
This quiet.
This history.
This boy who’s always been just across the street, but somehow closer than anyone ever has been.
“There’s something I’ve never told anyone.”
His thumb pauses for the briefest second, then continues. “Yeah?”
I nod, eyes still fixed on the doorway.
“I was ten. Mama walked into the kitchen one afternoon and found me sitting at the table, twirling a daisy between my fingers.”
He stays quiet, just listening.
“She smiled at me and said, ‘Did Logan pick you another daisy today?’” A soft laugh escapes me. “I’d been getting them for weeks, always tucked under the porch rail or stuck through the fence. I wore every one that lived long enough with pride in my hair.”
