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Ashby climbs out first, stretching with an exaggerated groan that sounds designed to announce his departure to the entire county. Torin follows, tucking his sketchbook under one arm.

Briggs hangs back near the truck.

Close enough if he's needed.

Far enough to give us room.

The three men have developed a talent for that over the past few days. They step in when the ground starts shifting beneath us and fade into the background when we need space to find our footing ourselves.

I watch them for a second and feel a rush of gratitude I don't have words for.

“It’s okay, we’ll be fine,” I tell them. “You go and get some rest. It’s been a long few days for all of us.”

They look at each other, a silent communication passing between them. I know they don’t want to leave.

Finally, Briggs breathes out and says with barely hidden reluctance, “Call if you need us.”

“However late or early,” Torin adds.

“Text before you go to bed, so we know you’re okay.” That’s Ashby, worry seeping through the cracks of his composure.

“I will,” I say.

We watch the truck leave. It feels like part of me is being pulled with it.

I take a deep, steadying breath and reach for Maggie's hand. "Ready?"

She looks at the house again. After a long moment, her fingers tighten around mine. "As I'll ever be."

The instant Maggie's boots touch the driveway, tears spill down her cheeks.

I don't think either of us expected this to hurt so much.

I walk around the truck and fall into step beside her as we head for the house. She wipes at her face and lets out a watery laugh, annoyed with herself for crying, even though nobody here would think less of her for it.

The closer we get, the harder it becomes to separate the house from the people who filled it. Every corner holds a memory. Every room carries traces of the lives we built here together and the ones we lost.

When the front door swings open, I find myself watching Maggie instead of the house.

The familiar scent of cedarwood, coffee, and old books isn't new to me anymore. I've been living inside it for weeks.

But seeing it hit Maggie all at once is different.

Her breath catches.

Maggie presses a hand against her mouth. "It still smells the same."

I nod because my throat isn't cooperating enough to speak.

The living room waits exactly where we left it. The couch sits beneath the front window. The bookshelves crowd the walls. Family photos fill every available surface.

And Ben is everywhere.

A picture of him at sixteen sits on the mantel. His grin is crooked, his hair ridiculous, and he looks so alive, my chest aches.

Maggie drifts toward the photograph.

I follow a few steps behind.