It was the kind of day she’d loved most. God had etched across the sky with charcoal, and the air smelled of dirt and wet tar and grass. Rain fell from the clouds in inconsistent showers all day. It was a day in early May; as the rain fell it gave new life to the flowers and the trees. And the people.
The house was old and beautiful. It stood on a hill on the eastern side of town, overlooking the small little town that was stuck in the past - old buildings and old cars and old people, people who’d lived their whole lives there and raised their children there and would never dream of leaving. They called this place home. They fished in its lake and shopped in its stores; life there was as peaceful as it’d get in America.
He walked the upstairs hallway of the house. He listened to the rain, paid attention to its smell, its sound. Some of the windows were open, letting in the fresh Spring air. The hallway was filled with too many memories. He’d already felt ardent walking into the house, now he looked at her door, open slightly ajar, and felt an ache in his heart. It was as if her spirit filled the house, like she never left. He knew she was watching him, so he talked to her every day. His life revolved around her, even though she was gone.
“Hi, Sophie,” he murmured. “I miss you.”
He opened the door.
It was exactly as it had been since he’d last been there, a little over a year ago. Except neater. Her parents weren’t the type to leave a room exactly as it had been for sentimental purposes. Her bed had been made - the light green quilt pulled neatly into place over the twin bed. Any books that had been astray had been placed ordered alphabetically on the tall bookshelf in the corner; all except one - Anna Karenina, which had been placed on the bedside table, its corner lined up perfectly with the corner of the table.
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