They say time heals, but grief doesn’t keep a calendar. Thirteen years after my father died, I still found him everywhere—in the way the kettle hissed, in the slant of afternoon light, in the itch to call someone who would never pick up. He wasn’t just my dad; he was my entire world. My mother left the day I arrived. He stayed for everything after.

I hadn’t set foot in his house since the funeral. The silence that day felt predatory, like it knew exactly where to sink its teeth. I locked the door and left the key on a chain I couldn’t bring myself to wear. I never sold the place, though. I told myself I’d go back when I needed old documents. That was easier than admitting I just wasn’t brave enough.

The day finally came. I stood on the porch with the copper key warming in my palm. “You can do this, Lindsay,” I whispered, and immediately felt like a liar. This wasn’t a house. It was a lung still trying to breathe without its heart.

The oak tree beside the steps lifted its leaves to the wind. He planted it the day I was born and said, “Strong roots, kiddo. Reach for the sky, but hold on to the ground.” I pressed my forehead to the door. “I don’t know how to do this without you,” I told the wood, then turned the key.

For one split second, some gentle, traitorous corner of my brain pretended I heard him: “Welcome home, kiddo.” Reflex made me answer, “Dad?” The echo swallowed the word and gave me back nothing.