Maybe Kara had meant that everyone was away.
Maybe they were at some resort where people wear white robes and pretend that cucumber water counts as happiness.
But Mom’s little blue car was still in the driveway, the dent above the rear tire reflecting the porch light.
Dad’s truck sat at its usual lazy angle, as if even gravity had given up trying to correct it.
I slid my key into the lock.
The click sounded obscene in that silence.
The moment I opened the door, I knew.
The house didn’t smell of rot.
It didn’t smell of smoke.
It smelled of stale air—metallic and exhausted, as if it had been breathed too many times.
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