The road was long and empty. As the miles passed, memories replayed in my mind—Emily’s laugh, the way she tilted her head when listening to music, the faint vanilla scent in her hair. I cried quietly, the way I only ever did when I was alone.
I reached the village at dusk. It was charming in that forgotten-by-time way—cobblestone streets, colorful houses, and an unmistakable sense of decay beneath the beauty. I hadn’t been there since the funeral.
I drove to Maple Street, number 42.
And stopped.
The house wasn’t what I remembered.
The faded walls were gone, replaced by fresh bright yellow paint. The garden was immaculate—roses, bougainvillea, trimmed hedges. A new wooden fence framed the property. And parked in the driveway was a sedan that looked almost new.
I double-checked the address.
It was correct.
“Maybe she managed well,” I told myself. “Maybe $300 a month goes far here.”
Still, unease followed me as I stepped out of the car with the gifts.
I rang the doorbell.
Laughter drifted from inside.
Children’s laughter.
And a woman’s voice.
A voice that made my blood turn to ice.
I froze. That laugh—light, musical, ending in a soft sigh—I would recognize it anywhere.