Page 132 of Glitched Play

I wrap my fingers around the worn leather handle.

It's heavier than I remember, not because of what's inside. Because of all it represents.

As I reach the stairs, Dad calls after me.

"Witt."

I turn.

"I'm glad you're smiling."

I look at the suitcase, then back at him. "So am I."

This time...

I know I mean it.

By the time I make it back to the penthouse, the weight of Dad’s words are still sitting somewhere beneath my ribs, unfamiliar but not unpleasant. I’m expecting silence, order, and the comfort of everything exactly where I left it.

The familiar click of the elevator opening echoes through the quiet entryway. Normally the apartment greets me with the low hum of climate control and little else. Tonight, another smell drifts toward me before I even step inside.

Garlic.

Tomatoes.

Butter.

And smoke.

Not enough smoke to trigger the fire suppression system. Just enough to suggest something had gone terribly wrong.

I step into the kitchen and stop. My eyes begin doing what they've always done.

Countertops.

Four bowls stacked beside the sink. Some in the sink.

Three measuring cups scattered across the island instead of nested together in the drawer where they belong.

Flour dusting the black quartz like the first snowfall of winter.

A wooden spoon resting across a pot at an angle that somehow feels... apologetic.

One cabinet door remains open three inches.

The refrigerator isn't fully closed.

A streak of tomato sauce decorates the backsplash.

Another somehow reached the ceiling.

Interesting.

Parmesan forms a trail across the floor, leading from the island to the stove. A towel hangs crookedly from the oven handle, and something inside the skillet has transformed beyond recognizable food into what appears to be an archaeological discovery.

My brain catalogs every detail automatically.

It always does.