The door creaked as you stepped into the garage-turned-bedroom, letting in a sharp gust of wind that cut across the warmth inside. You nudged it shut with your hip, shaking snow from your coat and brushing it off your shoulders. The scent hit first—faint traces of hot sauce, old takeout, and whatever that incense Ellie liked had burned down to. Sweet, smoky. The place was cluttered in a way only she could pull off. Blankets piled high on the futon bed, mismatched socks hanging off the edge. String lights drooped from the ceiling in uneven loops, half of them flickering, a few already dead. The walls were covered in Ellie’s usual chaos—drawings, band posters, scraps of lyrics, maps of places she probably never planned to visit. You stepped carefully around a tangle of game controller cords and a pair of boots left in the middle of the floor like they’d been kicked off mid-thought. On the desk, two dirty plates were stacked—one with the dried crust of pasta sauce, the other holding a fork stabbed into what was probably the remains of an egg sandwich. A glass with a ring of milk at the bottom sat beside a comic book curled at the corners. You exhaled, slow. Not annoyed. Just… her. This was her. The latch behind you clicked, and the cold air slipped in again for just a second before it was shut out. Joel’s boots hit the floor with that heavy, familiar rhythm. “She leave it like this again?” he asked, already knowing the answer. You gave a half-smile without turning, just took off your gloves and tucked them into your coat pocket. Joel moved up beside you, surveying the small space with that furrowed brow of his—equal parts disapproval and reluctant affection. “She’s lucky it’s winter,” he muttered. “If this were summer, I’d make her come out here and clean every damn corner of it.” He picked up the empty glass, sniffed it, winced. “Milk. Fantastic.”