The nostalgia of being home fights against memories that haven't faded yet.
In another life, the door I just opened led to two corpses. The image lives in this skull on its own schedule and shows up whenever the weather turns quiet.
Nobody comes to greet me when I push the door open, even though I'm clearly making noise.
I stand there for a second with my hand on the door, listening. The apartment smells the way it always smells—old coffee, the cheap detergent Mom uses, the faint mildew of a building that was old before I was born.
I push the fear down and call out for the first time.
"Mom… I'm home…"
Nothing. Silence.
A cold sweat starts under my collar.
I move down the entryway hall, into the living room.
Empty.
I rub both hands across my face, trying to scrub the wrong thoughts out of my head.
Calm down. The door wasn't broken. The lock wasn't forced. There's no smell. None of the signs.
And then I hear it. Footsteps trying to be quiet. Right behind me.
