This was my parents’ house. My house.

Two ruts cut parallel paths in the dirt next to the house. It was a not-quite driveway, which was now free of cars.

“They aren’t home.”

The words tumbled out of my mouth before I had time to think about their meaning.

I blinked, shocked at the ease of that statement. I hadn’t seen this ramshackle little house in many years, much less seen my parents’ cars parked outside of it. Yet I suddenly remembered exactly what this house looked like when it was empty.

Joshua’s voice nearly made me jump in my seat.

“Do you want to go see it?”

I nodded without looking at him. I didn’t even tear my eyes away from the house when Joshua got out of the car, opened my door, and helped me out onto the grass. Dazed, I walked hand in hand with him across the front lawn. It wasn’t until he took one step onto the front porch that I yanked on his hand, jerking him to a stop.

“What are you going to say?” I asked. “If someone’s actually here?”

“I was just thinking about that. What do you think? Vacuum salesman?”

“You don’t have any vacuums!” I hissed.

“Fund-raising for the baseball team?”

“Better. Kind of.”

Somewhat prepared, we walked up to the front door. As Joshua let go of my hand, he turned to me and gave me his most reassuring smile, which, unfortunately, twitched with almost as much fear as I felt. Then he raised his right hand and rapped on the door.

The door immediately swung open under Joshua’s touch. We both gasped and stepped backward.

On the other side of the door, a dark, shotgun-style hallway led to the back of the house. It took us a few seconds to realize that the hallway was empty and that no one had opened the door from the inside. The door must have already been ajar. Joshua’s knocking had merely pushed it open.

I had the briefest flash—an image of that door swinging open beneath a woman’s hand.

“My mom always did that,” I whispered, nodding. “She’d forget to close the door when she went out somewhere.”

“What should we do?” Joshua whispered back.

“Let’s go in.”

I pushed past him, squeezing myself between the doorjamb and the door until it was too late for either Joshua or me to argue with this plan. After he closed the door behind us, I let my eyes adjust to the dimness inside.

We were standing in the only hallway, off of which were several rooms. To my immediate right was a living room, crammed with secondhand furniture and an old TV. The entrance to another room was just visible in the back, to the right. Across from it I could see a tiny kitchen, next to what appeared to be an even tinier bathroom. I turned slightly to my left and stared at the door beside me, which was shut tight against the hallway.

However cool I was trying to play it, I had to stifle a gasp of shock at the flood of familiarity in this house: the sound of the creaking hardwood floors under Joshua’s feet; the tap-tap-tap of the leaky kitchen faucet in the back of the house; the sight of the faded, pink paper A taped in the middle of the closed door to my left.

I couldn’t help it. A whimper escaped my mouth just as I clutched my hand to my heart. The ache that now gripped my chest was new, and not even a fraction as pleasant as the one I felt with Joshua. This ache was terrible. It tightened against my lungs until I could hear myself begin to hyperventilate.

In an instant Joshua had wrapped his hands around my waist and pulled me to his chest. It was the closest we’d ever been, but I couldn’t seem to spare a fraction of my concentration to enjoy that fact.

“We can leave,” Joshua murmured into my hair. “We can leave right now.”

I shook my head.

“No.” The word was low and rough. “I can’t leave yet.”

I could feel Joshua nodding as he pulled me even closer. We stayed that way until I stopped gasping. Once my breath had steadied, Joshua released me. He looked me up and down, saving his longest look for my face.

“You know,” I said with a shaky laugh, “I think I might have been an asthmatic when I was alive. With all the gasping and stuff.”

Joshua just shook his head at my failed attempt at levity. “Do you really want to stay?”

I pressed my lips together into a tense line and nodded.

“Well . . . what do you want to see first then?” he asked.

I thought about that for a moment and then flicked my head at the door to my left.

“Could we go into my old bedroom?”

“O-kay.”

Like he always did when approaching something with caution, Joshua drew out his long O. He still sounded worried, still sounded as if he wasn’t sure I was ready for all of this. I kept my expression impassive and tried to look ready for anything. Seeing this (but obviously not believing it entirely), Joshua reached across me to turn the handle of my old bedroom door.

The door opened, and when it did, it released something I hadn’t anticipated.

A slight gust of warm air brushed my skin. I could feel it—feel its movement and its warmth. I could smell the air, stale from being trapped in the room for God knows how long, but with a faint hint of old perfume. It smelled vaguely of fruit . . . maybe peaches, or nectarines.

As quickly as the sensations had come, they were gone again, leaving me numb. But the sensations had come, that was the point. I closed my eyes briefly and savored the thought.

When I opened my eyes, I was surprised to find that I’d already crossed the threshold. I turned back to see Joshua hovering uncertainly in the doorframe. I smiled at him and gestured him into the room with one hand.

The room was tiny, with barely enough space for both Joshua and me to stand in it. Shoved against one wall was an old dresser and shoved against another was a twin-sized bed, which overflowed with purple and green pillows. Above the bed, a handful of gold paper stars hung from the ceiling by threads. They matched the curtains, which someone had closed against the light, rendering useless the small telescope propped against the window.

Even in the gloom I could see the only collection of items I’d ever owned: my books. Stacks of books, rising from the ground to almost waist height and running along every free inch of the tiny room. I’d found these books in used bookstores, thrift store bins, library sales. Each book had been read, reread, and then loving placed on top of a stack.

I pressed my hand to my heart again. This time I didn’t feel the need to gasp or sob. I felt . . . sad, yes. Deeply, deeply sad. But also glad to see all of this again. To know I had existed. That I still existed, at least in some form.

I smiled slightly and turned to Joshua. I flicked my head back to the hallway, indicating that it was time to leave the room. He picked up on my cue and turned around quickly—ready, I think, to be away from these images. I know the feeling, I thought as I moved to follow him.

Before I left the room, though, I peeked back over my shoulder. Just to memorize the tiny space one last time.

That’s when I noticed the thick layer of dust over everything. A transparent brown film covered the gold stars, the dresser, the books. I paused, frowning at the dust.

Though my parents hadn’t changed a thing in this room, they certainly hadn’t entered it in a long time, either.

For some reason that saddened me even more. Not because my mother didn’t trudge each day into some room-sized shrine to me, dust rag in hand. But because my parents had kept the room this way and sealed it up, as though it were some tomb, filled with things too painful to come near.

Which it likely was.

I shook my head, stepping out of the room and into the hallway without another backward glance.

“Close it, please,” I asked Joshua, my voice hoarse. He did so without a word, pulling the door shut behind me and sealing the tomb once again. I shuddered at the sound.