The Backyard and Its Stories

The backyard of the empty house at Elliot's neighborhood hasn't changed much.

The bench is still there, a little chipped at the edges. The fish pond is clean. The water glints, and new fish dart beneath the surface. A breeze ruffles the trees. The place isn't spooky like the neighbors say. It never was.

Elliot stands beside me, breathing in slow.

"Looks the same," I say.

"Feels the same," he adds.

We walk in together.

The silence is soft here. Gentle. A hush that feels like a warm blanket. We sit on the bench. And for a moment, everything fades. The funeral. The grief. Even the years that passed.

2019. We're fifteen again.

We're sneaking out with two cans of soda and a bag of chips. We're giggling about something dumb. I'm drawing with sidewalk chalk. He's photographing koi. We're teasing each other, getting too close, pretending not to care.

We're not broken. Not yet.