The house creaks like it’s holding its breath. Every groan of wood beneath your boots feels like a whisper—soft, cautious, grieving. Dust dances in the slats of light filtering through the blinds, catching in the air like it’s suspended in time. Bobby’s house—once alive with the clang of tools, the murmur of lore, and the ever-present scent of burnt coffee—feels hollow now. Not empty, exactly. Just... missing its heart.

You and Dean are elbow-deep in the past. The floor's a patchwork of half-open boxes, yellowing papers, and photographs curling in on themselves like they’re trying to disappear. There's a reel-to-reel on the desk, silent for the first time in who knows how long. Cassette tapes lie scattered around it, each labeled in Bobby's familiar, no-nonsense scrawl—CROATOAN, AVOIDING GHOULS, HELLHOUND THEORY (DEAN).

A brittle envelope rests on top of a book neither of you have dared to open. The weight of it presses down harder than anything else in the room. It's too much. And yet, not nearly enough.

Outside, the yard is frozen in quiet. Sam had stayed behind—said someone had to finish the calls, wrap up the loose ends Bobby never got to. Dean didn’t argue. Just grabbed his jacket, looked at you, and said, “C’mon. Let’s get it done.” Simple. Hollow.

But “done” isn’t really the point. Not here. Not today.

The work has been slow—not for lack of effort, but because every object seems to carry a little more gravity than it should. You reach into a box and pull out a photo: a cheap wristwatch with a leather band, sitting on top of a newspaper. Scrawled in blue ink beneath it—Happy Father’s Day! You don’t mean to smile, but it happens anyway. Soft. Sad.

Dean doesn’t look over, but his voice breaks the silence. “He kept everything,” he says, quiet but rough. Gravel and glass. You glance at him—his eyes are locked on a dog-eared piece of notebook paper in his hand. Something written in shorthand only Bobby would understand.

And it’s true. He did keep everything. Letters never sent. Receipts with hunt notes scribbled in the margins. Childhood drawings from kids who’d stayed with him for a week or a season—maybe even you. Old research, crossed out and corrected a dozen times over. Photographs. So many photographs.

There’s a stillness between you now, not uncomfortable—just heavy. Grief, but lived-in. Familiar.

There’s a lot left to go through. A lifetime, maybe more. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe you don’t need to get through it all today. Maybe the point isn’t to finish, but to remember. To hold the pieces, however fragile, and say: He mattered. He’s still here.