It was Mom’s favorite glass bird that always got the best spot on the Christmas tree.
How he found it, I had no idea.
“Cole, where are you going?” I whispered, even though I knew he couldn’t answer.
He turned without a sound and started walking.
How he found it, I had no idea.
I hesitated for a second. I was in pajamas, barefoot, and with no coat.
But I didn’t care. I followed him.
Down the porch. Across the yard. Past the frozen flowerbeds my mom used to fuss over like they were high-maintenance children.
He kept glancing back to make sure I was still there, each step deliberate.
I kept expecting him to stop at the garden. Or maybe curl up in Mom’s old chair on the back deck.
I hesitated for a second.
He walked right past all of it.
Out of the yard. Onto the street.
And then down another. And another.
I followed Cole like I was sleepwalking.
My feet were starting to go numb, but I couldn’t stop.
There was something in his pace… steady but urgent. And it told me I wasn’t crazy.
Even if I were, I didn’t care. Because my mom’s cat had come back.
And he wanted to show me something.
We turned down a side street I hadn’t thought about in years.
Old oak trees lined the sidewalk, houses with porches I used to know stretching out on either side.
Then I saw it: Our old house.
He wanted to show me something.
The one we lived in when I was little, before Mom’s job changed and we had to move. The house with the creaky porch swing. The one with the yard where she used to sit in the evenings with a glass of iced tea and tell me stories.
This was where Cole grew up too, back when he was just a tiny abandoned kitten Mom had found shivering near the alley dumpster and brought home wrapped in her scarf.
I stopped in my tracks, crying. Cole kept going.
He padded right up to the walkway and sat down like he’d been waiting for me to catch up.
I stopped in my tracks, crying.
Cole kept going.
I felt like I was choking on memories.
This house. God, this place. It held everything I’d been trying not to remember.
I was eight when we lived here. That summer, I broke my arm falling off the tire swing. My mom carried me in, crying harder than I was.
She used to sit with me under the porch light, brushing my hair behind my ears, whispering, “You’re okay. You’re always okay, baby.”
I felt like I was choking on memories.
And right now, I wasn’t. I felt anything but okay.
Then the porch light flicked on, and the door creaked open.
An older woman stepped out. She was feeble, wrapped in a cardigan, her hair silver and wispy.
She didn’t look surprised to see me.
Her eyes dropped to Cole, and something on her face softened.
“Oh,” she said. “There you are, boy!”
I blinked.
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