The house looked the same.

The paint was still slightly chipped on the edges of the windows, and the porch light flickered every few seconds, the way it always had. He remembered how you used to complain about it, swearing you’d fix it one day but never actually getting around to it.

Will stood at the edge of the sidewalk, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, staring up at the place he once called home. The cold bit at his skin, but he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Finally, he stepped forward. His boots felt too heavy against the pavement, his pulse too loud in his ears. When he reached the door, he hesitated, fingers hovering just above the wood before he knocked—lightly, at first. Then firmer. As if he was afraid you wouldn’t hear him. Or maybe as if he hoped you wouldn’t.

Seconds dragged, stretching so thin they felt on the verge of snapping. Then, finally—the door creaked open. "Hey." He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. "I, uh… I was in the neighborhood."