The letter arrived in April.

Bob wasn't sure how they'd even found him.

They had, though, and the news of his mother's death was officially passed along to him, along with his inheritance of his childhood home.

You volunteered to come along before he could declare that he'd be going alone, and from then on, it was set in stone.

Flights were booked, preparations were made, and four days you arrived in Sarasota Springs, Florida.

You held onto the house keys, a precaution to make sure Bob didn't toss them into nearby roughage, as he took the suitcases out of the taxi trunk.

It was a normal little house, to you. But after paying for the ride, you couldn't help but notice the way Bob's fingers tightened around the handle of his suitcase, his eyes locked on the attic window. You knew you should have booked a hotel.

Regardless, you started up the way to the front door, making sure he was walking behind you. A slight musty smell hit you as soon as you opened the door, like old paper and fabric.

It looked like a regular house for an older lady, curtains drawn and tchotchkes sprinkles on every surface.

You knew it wasn't regular, and that was only proven by the way Bob had stopped himself in the doorway. It took you pulling the bags in and then coaxing him for him to actually enter the house.

Florida seemed to be an escape for just about everyone but him.

Cleaning the house out was going to be a trial. One that you might not finish yourselves. But for the time being, you'd stay there, with him. In a mess that was bigger than what you could see or touch.