My sister announced in the family group chat that I was officially banned from the reunion—and made it clear no one was to tell me where it would be. I didn’t argue. I didn’t reply. I simply opened the location pin… and laughed so hard I had to cover my mouth.

I stand in the driveway for a few seconds longer than necessary because endings deserve witness. The ocean breathes behind the dunes. The late sun has softened. A gull cuts across the sky. My house stands exactly where it stood before they arrived—unchanged in structure, though not, perhaps, in energy.

Then I walk back inside.

The front door closes behind me with a sound I have always loved: solid, contained, final.

The living room still smells faintly like Bridget’s perfume, too sweet and too eager, something floral with an expensive note trying hard to disguise the desperation underneath. There are damp rings on the coffee table where beers and wineglasses sat without coasters. A bag of chips has been opened in the kitchen. Someone left a half-unzipped duffel near the stairs, but I check it and it’s empty—just forgotten in the chaos. The upstairs hall light is on. Cabinet doors stand slightly ajar.

Evidence.

Nothing catastrophic. Just traces.