Page 25 of Remain

The house empties slowly, and then all at once. Furniture is carried away, the walls begin to echo, and the rooms grow larger and lonelier without the things that once gave them shape.

By afternoon, the truck is full. The movers slide the ramp back into the truck, thank me, and wish me a Merry Christmas. The words pass through me with a distant ache.

When the door closes behind them for the final time, the house feels like a body resting without a heartbeat.

Aunt Carol hands me the keys. “You don’t have to give these to the realtor yet. You can take a minute.”

I walk through the house one last time, moving from the living room to the hallway and then into the kitchen, letting each space have its moment. I pause in the doorway and allow the quiet to settle around me.

“I did it,” I whisper, unsure who I’m speaking to. “It’s all done.”

There’s no answer, only the low hum of the empty house and the weight of what has been closed.

Outside, the cold air bites sharper than before as I hand over the keys.

The truck pulls awaywith a low groan, its tires crunching against the frozen gravel as it turns the corner at the end of the street and disappears from view. Behind me, the house stands empty, the porch bare and the windows dark, stripped of the warmth that once lived there. The SOLD sign has already been taken down, its white post leaning against the fence like something discarded, as though it no longer knows what it’s meant to hold.

There is nothing left to negotiate with now, no space for second guesses or lingering arguments with myself. I release a long, unsteady breath, the sound of it visible in the cold air, and let the moment pass through me.

“That was… fast,” Aunt Carol trails off in thought, stifling a sob.

I nod. I don’t think I could speak right now if I tried.

She squeezes my arm once. “I’ll take these to my place,” she says, nodding at the boxes marked KEEP. “You call me when you’re ready. They can live there as long as they need.”

“Okay.”

“I love you, Savannah. You did a big thing today. She would be so proud of you.” She pulls me in tight, heart to heart, holding me close.

When she pulls away, she leaves me there, not abandoned, just trusted to have this moment alone.

The cold creeps in immediately, sharp and insistent. I wrap my coat tighter around myself and turn once moretoward the house, memorizing the way the afternoon light hits the siding. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s grief refusing to let go cleanly.

A vehicle slows behind me.

I hear it before I see it; the familiar low rumble, the way it idles like it’s a part of the town.

Erik’s truck is pulled halfway onto the curb, hazard lights blinking softly. He gets out slowly, like he’s not sure whether this is a moment he’s allowed to enter.

My heart races at the sight of him and my mind is flooded with thoughts of last night. All I can see now are the photos. The way they were framed before he pressed the shutter, with all of the consistency and care felt in every single one.

Erik doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t comment on the emptiness or the absence of life in my childhood home. He just looks at me.

“You okay?” The question is open-ended. He’s giving me space to say no.

“I signed,” I say instead.

His jaw tightens just slightly. “Yeah?”

I nod. “It’s done.”

He exhales through his nose, something like relief and something like sorrow passing through him at the same time. “I’m glad you didn’t do it alone.”

I find myself thinking about the photographs again and about how long he has been here while I was gone, how many moments he witnessed without me, and how many things he knows that I am only just beginning to understand. The realization settles slowly, heavy but undeniable.

He steps closer and then stops, leaving just enough distance to give me space. The cold has reddened his hands and his cheeks, and for a moment he looks exactly like himself, like he did at eighteen when he used to forget hisbeanie and gloves without fail. And yet, at the same time, he looks completely different, shaped by years I wasn’t here to see.

“I was just driving by,” he begins, us both knowing full well Pineview isn’t small enough that driving by is never accidental.