Something buried.
Something that should never see the light of day.
Something like me.
And before I can move—before I can even think—I’m yanked from the willow tree with the force of a noose tightening around my throat.
The world shifts. Folds. Snaps inside out.
One moment, I’m there, my gaze locked onto the stranger who shouldn’t be able to see me.
The next—I’m gone.
Ripped away.
The last thing I hear before the void swallows me whole is a low chuckle, curling through the morning air like smoke.
And then—Darkness.
I pop open the trunk of my old Datsun 510 and take in the sight of the wooden treasure barely squeezed inside.
There it is. My grandmother’s rocking chair. It’s wedged tight between the torn lining and a spare tire I haven’t touched in years, but the way the fresh sunlight catches the new coat of paint?
Absolutely stunning.
The antique restorer spent six long weeks bringing it back to life—six weeks of stripping, sanding, and painstakingly matching the original grain. It also cost me a serious chunk of my savings. But you know what? Totally worth it.
It looks just like I remember.
The wood is a rich, deep cherry, and the spindles are smooth and sturdy. The seat’s not exactly the same shade, but close enough that only someone with my memories would notice. The armrests gleam, polished to perfection, and even the hand-carved details have been carefully restored.
The guy did an incredible job. I’ll have to leave him a glowing review once I get the chair inside—he’s definitely earned it.
But before I do anything, I just stand there and stare at it. It’s a big piece of furniture. Honestly, it’s a miracle it even fit in my poor old car’s trunk. Actually, scratch that—it must’ve been divine intervention. My grandmother must’ve put in a word with the big guy to make sure I could get it home. Because if she’s watching from up there, she knowsMarkwould never let me take his precious, polished Lexus to haul something “sentimentally useless,” as he calls Gran’s antiques.
That being said… I have no idea how I’m getting it inside, let alone up the stairs. The restorer loaded it into my trunk for me, but getting it out on my own? That’s a whole different challenge.
I exhale, roll my shoulders, and grip the sides of the chair. It’s wedged in so tight it doesn’t budge at first. I give it another tug. Nothing.
I glance toward the house. Mark's Lexus is parked farther up the driveway, so he must be home. Probably working. He doesn’t like to be interrupted, but…
I shut the trunk for now and head inside. Just like the chair, this house was hers. My grandmother's. She’s still here with me, in every creaky floorboard and sunlit windowpane, in every corner where dust gathers just a little too quickly—just like it did when she lived here. Somehow, it even still smells like her, despite Mark’s many attempts to get rid of it.
Some things just aren’t meant to fade, I think. And she's one of them.
I step into the hallway, slipping off my shoes as I glance up the stairs. He’s probably locked in his office, buried in numbers. Accounting is as much a part of him as breathing.
I hesitate before calling out.
“Mark?”
Silence.
Figures.
I sigh, debating whether to try again or just deal with the chair myself. I don’t want to piss Markoff. His anger lingers for hours after it appears, and nothing I do ever makes the process easier. He has to burn it out.
I don’t want to spend the rest of the day getting the cold shoulder just because I asked for help at the wrong time.
