The house loomed ahead, and she rushed to the back door. Harry always left it unlocked. Always. She slammed her hand against the door, shoving it open.
“Harry,” she yelled, her breathy voice trembling. “Harry!” Moving into the silent kitchen, the stove sat stone cold, the house dark and still.
She passed through the house like a shadow, her heart thrumming in her chest, echoing in her ears.
“Harry?”
There was no movement, no sound of his footsteps.
In the sitting room, the smoky scent of tobacco mingled with the musty aroma of charred wood.
Shannon froze, her gaze fixed on Harry’s empty leather wingback chair, the indentations of his thighs still visible in the worn fabric.
In a daze, she moved toward the crystal decanter, her hands trembling as she poured the deep burgundy liquor into a glass.
She lifted it to her nose, inhaling the scent—sweet, like memories. His proud smile when she won a rosette, the warmth of his arm after she fell, the nights spent around the dining table.
His steady presence, always there.
The glass hovered at her lips. She closed her eyes, holding onto the warmth of his memory before taking a slow sip. The burn of the liquor spread through her chest, trying to dull the crushing weight of her grief.
But it wasn’t enough. It never would be.
A clank from the corner of the room broke her from her thoughts.
“Harry?” she gasped, her voice cracking.
Jackson padded into the room, his nose twitching as he sniffed the air, his eyes searching for his master.
He stopped at her boots, sat down, his gaze meeting hers with the same sadness she understood in her soul.
Shannon sank to her knees, burying her face in Jackson’s soft fur. She swallowed hard, the tears coming in waves.
“It’s just you and me now, boy. You stick with me,”she whispered through her sobs. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”
Death had wrapped itself around the room like a cold, suffocating blanket. She could almost hear Harry’s low chuckle echoing in her mind, as if he were still here, watching her.
But he wasn’t.
He was gone.
Shannon rose, her movements robotic. Her eyes landed on Harry’s cigarette packet, and her hands fumbled as she pulled one out, bringing it to her lips.
She lit it with a flick of the silver lighter, the smoke choking her lungs, but the familiar scent offering a connection to him.
She placed the cigarette in the ashtray, watching the smoke swirl. Climbing into Harry’s chair, she curled into it, pulling her knees to her chest. The soft fabric of Jamie’s sweatshirt couldn’t replace the comfort Harry had once provided.
The pain was raw, a wound too deep to heal. No amount of time could erase the void left by his absence.
The cold, worn leather of the chair seemed to mourn with her, the imprint of him lingering in the stillness.
Shannon tugged the hood over her head, trying to hide from the ache, from the emptiness where Harry should’ve been.
The brandy had done little to ease her pain, the empty glass cupped in her hands.
She blinked, her vision blurry, when Jackson shifted,his name tag tinkling. Her throat tightened, her lips dry from the flood of tears.
Her breath caught when she saw him.
