When he d.i.e.d, the house became both a sanctuary and a prison. Every corner still smelled of him, every room echoed with his laughter. I couldn’t bring myself to change anything—the books remained half-stacked on the coffee table, his shoes sat neatly by the door. It was all I had left.

Then, on a gray afternoon when the air smelled of rain, the doorbell rang.

I wasn’t expecting anyone. Most friends had stopped dropping by weeks ago, their sympathy tapering off into polite texts and vague promises to “catch up soon.” When I opened the door, two people stood on the porch, faces I had only seen in faded photographs.

Logan’s parents.

He had told me about them, though rarely. They had been estranged for nearly a decade, cut off after years of bitterness, disappointment, and silence. He never fully explained why, only that they had judged his choices—his career, his relationships, his very existence—with a cruelty he could not forgive.