"Should I show you around?"
Riley’s attention flicked to her sister, a quick check-in, then came back to me. “That would be good.”
We headed toward the house together, the three of us moving in loose formation—close enough to look unified, far enough apart to feel it. Our steps didn’t quite match. No one knew where to walk or who should go first. I kept talking just enough to fill the gaps and tried not to think about how stiff it all felt—like we were stepping into roles we hadn’t practiced.
The farmhouse smelled like lemon polish and old wood, the particular scent of a home that had been loved for generations.I'd spent the last three days cleaning, scrubbing, preparing rooms that hadn't been used in years. Trying to make this place feel welcoming for people I didn't know how to welcome.
"Kitchen's through here," I said as I turned down the narrow hallway, one hand brushing the wall out of habit, slowing my pace so they could follow.
The kitchen was my grandmother’s pride. A big window overlooking the pasture, hand-embroidered curtains she’d made herself, the cast-iron pot still hanging by the stove exactly where she’d left it. I remembered standing at that counter as a kid, watching her roll out pie dough, her hands dusted with flour, humming songs I didn’t recognize but somehow knew by heart.
I ran my hand along the counter, the wood worn smooth by decades of meals and quiet conversations. She'd been gone for two years, but the space she left behind still felt occupied. Some days I still half-expected to hear her at the stove, asking if I'd eaten, like food could fix anything that hurt.
I wanted Riley and Mia to see what I saw here. Not just a room, but proof that people had loved each other in this house. That they'd stayed. And maybe, if I was lucky, that love hadn't used itself up yet.
"You okay?"
I looked up. Riley was watching me closely now, her attention no longer on the room but on me. She’d caught it—the pause, the way my hand lingered on the counter, the fact that I hadn’t moved on right away. There was something careful in her expression. Not pity. Recognition.
"Yeah." I pulled my hand back from the counter. "Just remembering."
She nodded and didn’t push. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, my shoulders easing as the tightness in my chest loosened a notch. Riley noticed that too. Her gazelingered just long enough to tell me she’d clocked the shift, the way my body settled once the pressure was off.
I appreciated that about her. She understood that some memories needed space.
"Living room's through there," I said, pushing past it. "Stone fireplace. Gets cold up here in winter, but that thing throws heat like nothing else."
We moved through the house, room by room. I pointed out the bathroom, the laundry, the back door that stuck when the humidity climbed. Riley nodded at everything, her expression giving nothing away. Mia trailed behind us, touching nothing, saying nothing, a ghost in her own future home.
Then we climbed the stairs.
"There are three bedrooms up here," I said. "Mine's at the end of the hall. Riley, you're in the guest room on the left."
I stopped in front of a door painted pale yellow, the color softened by time, the paint chipped around the edges where small hands had once pushed it open and shut. My grandmother had chosen it. Said it was cheerful. Said it would be perfect for grandchildren someday.
“Mia—” I shifted my weight, glanced at the door, then back to her. “This is your room.”
She went still in the doorway, like the words had hit something fragile. Her backpack slid a fraction lower on her shoulder, forgotten. For a second, she didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. Just stared at the door like it might disappear if she trusted it too much.
The quiet stretched, thick and uncertain.
And suddenly I was afraid of what that might mean to her—promise, or expectation, or one more thing she didn’t believe was meant to last.
The room was small but complete. A sturdy wooden bed frame with a quilt my grandmother had made for thegrandchildren she never got to meet. The stitches were still tight and even after all these years. I'd dragged down the dresser from the attic and polished it until it shone. The window looked out over the pasture, where the horses were grazing in the late afternoon light.
I'd spent an entire day getting this room ready. Wasn't sure why it mattered so much. It had just felt right.
"Now I have my own room?" Mia's voice was barely a whisper. She sounded like she was afraid to touch the words, like saying them too loud might make them disappear.
"Yours," I confirmed. "For as long as you want it."
She took a step inside, then stopped. Her hand reached toward the quilt, hesitated, pulled back. I couldn't read what was happening behind her eyes, but I recognized the hesitation. The fear of wanting something you might lose.
“The window sticks sometimes,” I spoke into the quiet before it could harden into something worse. “But if you jiggle the latch, it opens.” I nodded toward the glass. “Best view on the property. You can see the sunrise from here.”
Mia didn't respond. But she moved further into the room, her fingers finally brushing the quilt, tracing the pattern my grandmother had stitched by hand.
Riley crossed the room to stand beside her sister, one hand coming to rest on Mia's shoulder. Neither of them moved for a long moment. Neither of them spoke.
