Christ, get it together.
He steadied his grip and lined up the key with the lock. It scraped against the plate—once, twice. His heart hammered against his ribs. Sweat trickled down his spine despite the cool September air.
Third try. The tumblers finally turned.
Seth gripped the knob, his palm slick, and pushed the door open.
The hinges creaked—a sound he’d heard a thousand times but had forgotten until this moment. He stepped inside, and the door swung shut behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo in the stillness.
He froze.
Holy fuck.
The air was thick and stale, undisturbed for years. Dust motes drifted in the slanted light filtering through the curtains Autumn had picked out—cream with delicate blue flowers. The Christmas tree and presents he remembered from that final night were gone, packed away by someone who’d cared enough to erase the holiday but not enough—or maybe too broken—to change anything else.
The floors were clean. No dust on the furniture. His mother had meticulously maintained this place, preserved it like an exhibit of a life that had ended.
But everything else remained exactly as he’d left it.
Tristan’s baby swing still sat in the corner of the living room, its bright primary colors now faded with time. The bassinet was beside the couch where Autumn had often curled up to nurse him while watching late-night TV. A toy basket brimming with stuffed animals sat at the base of the coffee table—toys his son never had the chance to outgrow.
Seth forced himself to move deeper into the house, his footsteps hollow on the hardwood. He needed to assess what repairs were necessary. Check for water damage. Note what furniture could be sold or donated. Make a list.
Stay clinical. This is just a job.
He forced himself to look at the house with a cop’s eye instead of a grieving man’s. The caulk around the front door had cracked. A faint water stain spiderwebbed near an air vent in the hallway ceiling. He added roof inspection to the list. The couch and chair could be donated.
In the kitchen, the fridge still hummed when he opened it, but it needed a good cleaning before listing the place. Tristan’s bouncy seat still sat on the table, the cheerful jungle animal pattern now sun-bleached where the light had hit it year after year. Seth could see it so clearly—Autumn moving around this space, singing off-key while she cooked dinner. Tristan kicking his chubby legs in that very seat, making those soft baby sounds, looking up at him with wide, trusting eyes.
Like his daddy was his whole world. Like his daddy would protect him from anything.
Seth’s chest constricted. His vision blurred at the edges.
No. Hold it together, goddamnit.
He turned away, forcing his legs to carry him down the hallway. The nursery door was closed. He should open it. Check for mold, water stains, structural issues.
His hand hovered over the knob.
He couldn’t do it. Not yet. But he’d have to deal with Tristan’s things…later. Somehow. But he couldn’t picture dismantling his boy’s nursery, couldn’t imagine removing a few keepsakes from his past life and walking away for good. That’s what needed to happen but…
Fuck.
For now, he moved to the master bedroom. The bed was made, the room neat. The closet door stood ajar, and he could see Autumn’s clothes still hanging there. Dresses she’d never wear again. Shoes she’d never slip into.
In the corner, near the window, sat the rocking chair where he’d held Tristan those first exhausting nights home from the hospital. The image slammed into him with brutal clarity: Autumn in her pink dress with the daisies, exhausted but glowing, watching him cradle their son wrapped in that soft blue blanket. The weight of Tristan in his arms. The fierce, terrifying love that had consumed him.
The promise he’d made to keep them safe.
He could see it so clearly now—carrying Tristan through that front door for the first time. Autumn trailing behind, her hand on his arm, both of them giddy yet anxious. Tristan had been oblivious to the momentous occasion, fast asleep beneath the blue blanket Grace had knitted for him. Seth remembered unlocking the door, thinking he was the luckiest bastard alive, as the September sun warmed his back.
September.
Seth’s heart stuttered.
Tristan would have turned nine next week.
The realization sucker-punched him in the chest, stealing the air from his lungs. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
