A strained mewling had me rolling over to the bed's edge. Meabh pleaded with wide, green eyes that reflected the moonlight from the windows. They threw down rectangles of light, which slid half-way—no, three-fourths down the side of the wall. It must be around one o'clock.

"Oh Meabh, I forgot," I sighed. I flipped away the covers, wide awake. Meabh slinked away from my hand reproachfully.

With lethargic energy I navigated the apartment in darkness. The kibbles clinked in Meabh's cat bowl, and she waited until I was in the living room before eating. I didn't know how long I slept; Hannah had left, and the hours ebbed like molasses. I set a reminder for Meabh. I couldn't afford to be neglectful now.

In my apartment every corner was known to me. Aside from a small, neon-green potted spider plant, a low glass table stockard with stationary supplies, and Allison's paintings that I've hung up above the sofa, there was nothing here. Nothing that leapt out to you and demanded your attention. Even the breeze blew in a predictable manner, rustling the papers on the table before snaking around my legs and eventually reaching Meabh, lifting her fur. In the darkness the space seemed fuller. Home decor cluttered the mind, but in times like these, I wish I had invested time in selecting furniture that reflected me.

"You just want to sell the house and get it over with."

Already the memory of the conversation was fleeting. Had Mom said it like that? Like my visions, I was left with the ghostly imprints of what transpired today. The residue that refused to disappear no matter how hard Hannah tried to banish it from my mind.

My phone buzzed in my hand. I hadn't realized I was holding it, but of course, I did remember setting a reminder for Meabh. The bright screen made me squint. It didn't look like Hannah's regular batch of uplifting messages. Thank goodness. She had her own life to live, and I had roped her into my own problems.

I scrolled through work emails. They seemed to be more about the Timberline library's grand opening later this week. Per usual, Marcus had come up with last minute plans to have some GreenGlass employees assist the library staff that day. As long as children weren't involved, I supposed it was fine.

Another message appeared, not from GreenGlass. When I clicked the new message, it sent me to Dad's private inbox. But he must have deleted what he sent; the last message was from myself, just a couple years after running away. I squeezed my tired eyes shut.

Nora: You weren't wrong about that Social Studies award. Remember? Now I'm studying psychology.

That was when I still cared. When my pride itched to spill outwards and wrap around those who knew me better than friends ever could.

Now, in place of hope, apathy sat like a stone.

My phone buzzed again.

Dad: Can we talk? Please. I'm outside the house.

The second he picked up, I said irritably, "Firstly, I don't want to hear your apologies. And second..." I held my hand to my head, and lowered the volume on my phone. "Talking with you makes more sense than thinking by myself. I hope that's the reason you want to talk, too. Do I make myself clear?"

A pause. "All right."

There were crickets on the other end of the line. Without seeing his face, it was easier to curl up on the side of the couch and picture Dad smoking under a street lamp. Dad's kind of silence, I'd learned, was invisible. Or rather it was so common that you didn't notice when it nudged you in the shoulder. It was present in the MacIntyre memories, in the background, but Dad's own key visions had been washed out by...well, I had just known I was seeing it all from Dad's eyes.

His silence used to be telepathic, but now it grated at my nerves. "Talk, Dad. Just say something."

"Your mom and I fought."

I opened and closed my mouth, imagining Dad shrinking under Mom's patronizing rants.

"Sometimes, Dad, I wonder if it's better to let you fight your own battles, or if I should call Mom and give her a good slap in the face."

"Then why don't you—No, nevermind," Dad groaned. I bit my lip. "Nora, you've always been frank. Tell me. What do you want?"

His tone bordered on pleading. As if he would give me anything in the world as long as I gave him an answer. I gave in, because turning him away would be like kicking a kitten.

"Well, let me think," I said slowly. "You told me about Allison, and I plan to visit her grave. The house remains a question mark. I don't know what to do with it. Selling it would feel like a disservice to your sister. Keeping it would be like..."

I waved my hand in the darkness. "What would I do with it? Just let it sit there and collect dust? How is that of benefit to anyone?"

"You can sell it, then," Dad sighed.

"You want me to?" I said, scandalized and relieved.

"I want whatever you want."

"That's a lazy answer."

The sound of a coat wrinkling. I imagined Dad adjusting the phone to his ear.

"Is it really about the house, Nora? I regret even..." He sighed before continuing, "Nora, listen. Try to think from my perspective. Hearing from you after all these years was a big surprise. Because we thought you had gotten over us."

Like a heartbreak. That made sense, but what lingered was the uncertainty if you'd ever find another person. A partner. I was not a sentimentalist, but a future of webbed relationships and myself in the center, with no one who loved me not as a friend, but my other half, was unimaginable. I curled my fingers to stop them from tingling, as if they were unravelling like string.

"That's besides the point. Like I said, if the key hadn't arrived at my literal doorstep I wouldn't have tried any of this. I thought you'd hate me," I said softly, "and I was right."

"But I don't hate you! What made you so convinced of that? Is it because you ran away?" Dad exhaled, and I imagined him running his hand through his hair. "I could never hate you. I love you. You're my kid. I'll always think of you as my kid."

I pressed the phone closer to my ear. "You rarely say things like that."

"It took everything in me," Dad said with a shaky laugh. "I didn't grow up with those words. I mean, I did, but it never means much when—when you don't believe it. I understand what it's like, Nora. I'm sorry I couldn't give you a better childhood."

I nodded. Deep down I knew it wasn't "okay." You couldn't erase the pain regardless of how faded the scars have become. My consciousness ebbed, reminding me that it must be Monday now. "Dad, if it's okay for you, I might sell the house. Gather Allison's belongings. Anything you want me to get for you? You can pick it up here."

"No, wait. What's the sudden rush?"

I wanted it to be over. Contacting Mom and Dad had ripped open an old wound that didn't need any more chafing. Swinging my legs to the floor, I suppressed a yawn. "Why not? What else would I do with it?"

"Allison wouldn't give up so easily."

"Don't compare me to her. Come on Dad, this isn't like you." I walked the perimeter of my living room. My eyes were adjusted to the darkness. There was no mystery, no what-if, only the burdens we carried and the burdens we could choose to crush ourselves under. "Wouldn't you be happy giving it a rest? I'd be causing you more grief, and like she proved today, we're perfectly content."

Dad swore. "Jesus, Nora. You too? I thought you were different from her."

"Who? Mom?" I said sharply. "I keep telling you, all she does is lie—"

"Sometimes she lies, yes, but you can't assume that your own mother is a heartless monster! If you only knew. If only you knew."

I stared up at the moon high above the sleepy townscape. "What did she say?"

"The same thing she told you. 'Nora's built a new life, and she's afraid that her own parents will ruin it. Is the MacIntyre house just another obstacle? Another puzzle for you to solve?' Don't prove her right, Nora," Dad sighed. "I know you're better than that. And that's not what I believe."

He knew I was better than Mom? What genius had figured that out for him?

Dad continued, "I do want to see you again, Nora. It's been so long, I'm afraid if we wait for any more time to pass, the possibility of something better will disappear entirely. That's why I'm asking you if you still care. If your mother hasn't discouraged you from caring. If only to put this behind us, whatever you want, I'll support you."

Those words were scarier than anything Mom would say. It wasn't scripted. Dad was offering everything I wished I had ten years ago. Just like that. The promise was delicate like fine china. I saw it shatter if I took it in my own hands.

"I can't trust that, Dad. I don't know if I can do that," I choked.

"I forgive you," Dad said simply. "For all that it's worth, no matter what your mother says, I don't hold anything against you."

But could I forgive Dad? Could I really, after the years of watching from the background instead being by my side?

"Nora?" he asked quietly.

A torrent of fury rose from a part of me I didn't comprehend. It crashed against the wall of my self-composure. I gripped my phone so hard, I thought I would crack the wooden case.

"It's not that easy," I told him in a wavering voice.

My other hand covered my lips, even as despair welled up in my chest. My eyes stayed dry from all the earlier crying. So dry I could feel the breeze from the window brushing my eyes, my skin, making me fully aware of how weak I was.

I had never felt this way with Grandpa. He made me feel strong. Caring for him was a daily battle of resentment and comfort. But I held more love for him than my own parents. My medicinal knowledge, the academic material I'd soaked up in school like a sponge, even my limited athletic abilities helped Grandpa. In return he taught me how to see the world in colour. His determination to tackle each day with a hearty laugh and a clear conscience. And so I did.

How desperate was I to accept what Dad promised me so easily? Where was the proof? The action? The answer: There was none. I had plunged into the thicket of my family's problems, discovered the thorn, ripped it out, and expected the pieces to fall into place. Without consequence. Because I was so used to leaving things and people behind the moment they didn't work.

Experience was a harsh teacher. Forgiveness handed on a plate was destined to be a disaster in disguise. Grandpa hadn't understood that, even when he drew his last breath. Now I did.

"Nora? Nora. Stay with me," Dad said quickly. I turned away from the phone. Through my sniffles, I heard him say, "You're all I have. I don't want to lose you."

"Sure you do," I choked back.

"I do! I do..."

I heard him but it was like talking to empty air. I didn't care.

I glanced at the time. Three in the morning. "Don't you have work, Dad? Why aren't you sleeping?"

He lowered his voice. "I need time outside the house. I tried to talk sense into your mother, believe me. But now she thinks I've taken your side."

Finally, steel returned to my voice. I straightened. "You love her."

"Of course I do, Nora. She isn't perfect, but one day—"

"She's slowly destroying you. That's what I believe. She makes you think that the most complicated things are simple. Like one phone call would convince me. You might have the best of intentions, Dad, but I don't believe empty promises."

"No, not yet! Nora, I thought you wanted to—"

"You love Mom," I repeated. "You can't afford to lose her like you lost me. Because you love her, and she won't forgive you either, if you make up with me, right? I do want to talk with you again as if everything is okay. But I'm not sure if you're ready to give up Mom, because you love her too. Goodbye, Dad."

I hung up and sat on the ground, putting my head between my knees. The position became uncomfortable. I got up.

What was it like, to love someone like that? Was my refusal to be so blindly loyal the reason I could never keep those I loved close to me?

—

I loved it.

Fluorescent lights. Large, yawning hallways that filled and drained with so many people and backpacks, half of them taller than me. Chalkboards, muddy floors, talking, teaching, paper, and more paper. Assessments that swept you up and dropped you down like a merry-go-round, except there wasn't anything kind. High school was functional. Expansive with clubs and opportunities, all that I took, none that numbed me enough.

And I loved it.

Perhaps my only saving grace was my copper ponytail. I stuck out like a traffic light among the browns and black-haired. Devoid of my red-haired parents, I was no longer ashamed to stand out. There I found my voice to add to the academic symphony of move, move, move.

Occasionally home would loop back to find me. Squeeze me like a snake and coil me in darkness. Cycles. The cycles orbited some ancient star before circling back to sting. People weren't like that. They either existed on the edge of my peripheral vision, or only through my own Unlocked memories. People didn't come back just because you wanted them to.

So sometimes I would return to take a stroll with Grandpa. Plucked my parents' keys and filled in the gaps of the time I didn't spend at home. Flicked the lights on, then off. On and off. Off. Always kept them off.

The world slowed down on bad days. Like home. Like Grandpa. But Mom never stopped praising me or complaining or asking why I betrayed her. Dad tightened his grip around Mom's spending habits. He locked them both in an agreement. Now the nights were filled with resentment and suspicion, barren as a desert.

But my marks propelled me. I flew above and beyond without wings, and I loved it. 

Never had I read a book where fear or anxiety was described as how I experience it--a tingling in your appendages, like the flesh is being untwined from neat weaving into barethread yarn. I heavily relied on my own sensory experiences for describing Nora, so I will have to remember how my other characters feel as opposed to her when writing from their POVs.