Buried. A year ago.
The sentence made no sense, like someone had switched languages in the middle. My mind tried to reject it. I waited for the punchline. The correction. The cruel joke.
But Linda didn’t blink.
“We live here now,” she added. “So… you should go.”
My throat went dry.
“I—” I tried again. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Linda’s lips curved slightly, not a smile—more like satisfaction.
“You were in prison,” she said. “What were we supposed to do? Send you a sympathy card?”
Behind her, the hallway looked changed. Different pictures on the walls. Different furniture visible beyond the entryway. None of my father’s things. No hunting coat hung by the door. No scuffed boots. No familiar smell of cedar and coffee and the lemon cleaner he used on weekends.
It was like my father had been erased.
And Linda was standing in the doorway guarding the eraser.
“I need to see him,” I said, voice cracking. “I need—”
“There’s nothing to see,” she replied. “It’s over.”
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