The days revealed themselves like cards shuffled from a deck, and a week passed by with everything done and nothing accomplished.

True to my word, at the MacIntyre house I packed everything of relevancy into a few neat boxes for Dad. My Unlocking told me of the few things Dad cherished. Or used to. He might be a different person now, but I matched the words, images or sentiments of the MacIntyre key—and my own—with easily found objects. An old Gameboy. A journal. All the family albums, for those seemed more tangible than my visions. It was like a puzzle game where you couldn't quite feel the shape of the puzzle. Dad never truly valued materialistic or sentimental objects. I couldn't tell the forest from the trees. The imperfect spark of humanity took on too many forms, most of which in the smile of Aunt Allison.

Climbing out of the void, I glared at the MacIntyre key.

Who had sent it? My mind itched to know the answer.

Hugo cleared his throat. "Got everything?"

The trunk of my car—which I barely used—had room for more than one stack of Allison's paintings. A poorly-thought well-wishes gift. They would most likely end up in my parents' basement; the grief they brought to Dad's voice just inquiring about them told me more than I needed to hear. I had arranged to drive to my parents' house to drop them off. That would be the last time I made contact with them.

"I'm all set," I said, lowering the trunk lid.

Hugo promised that with a quick renovation, it would be sold to a family in need. I shouldn't worry about the transfer date; a few weeks after October 19th wouldn't hurt, he said. What else would I do with it?

—

In between work, Meabh, and the MacIntyre house, I skewed the trajectory of my schedule in an attempt to fill the empty gaps. More hours at GreenGlass. More hours spoiling Meabh with cat treats and toys, giving her the attention she usually lacked, and ensuring she always had food in her bowl in case I returned late. More hours binge-watching Murdoch Mysteries, sometimes with Hannah, and more often not watching at all. They were convenient excuses for tentative questions about the future which always circled back to, "I'm not sure."

A typical reply. Somehow he managed to appear in my life in all ways except the one that mattered most. I started to understand why Allison passed the house to me. She needed someone to make the hard choices, even if it wasn't the right one. I wondered if visiting her gravestone without Dad would be impertinent.

Allison rarely surfaced to the forefront of my visions. Was it because of the paintings she had left behind? Did they serve as the "key" to who she was as a person? A few hung on the walls of my apartment, alongside my two untitled additions; the key painting from the Farmer's Market, and the mourning daisy from the library. They reflected me better than the ghost of my aunt.

Death was too vague of a concept for me to grasp. I only knew what it was like to be afraid to die. Every day. I hadn't recognized the crippling doubt that lurked in my mother's and Grandpa's keys. It was a trademark of medicinal illnesses. It dripped down family generations, synonymous with your blood, and thus impossible to control. Others saw a twenty-six year-old woman who had snagged a respective job position. But in a mirror in a doctor's office, or every morning when I took my Levoxyl pill, I was reminded that my hypothyroidism was there. Chipping my life away while I turned a blind eye. Ready to pull the ground from beneath my feet.

This was inaction. Maintaining a healthy diet, exercising, and remaining calm only gave the illusion of control. Some illnesses had no cure. Some addictions, like Oni's, took courageous tries at the rehabilitation center and that much more love from his husband and son. But the worst illnesses were the invisible cracks that were taken as a given of life. Packaged pain. So problems with no solutions were pointless to speak of.

My second chance would always hover at the edge of my phone screen. But whatever I said, it never failed to turn sour. My attempt at talking sense into Mom ended precisely fifty-eight seconds after it started.

"You're just going to disappear again. Run away when it gets hard. Stop trying Nora, and let it go."

"I'm not running away," I insisted. "I feel responsible and I want to fix it."

"If anyone needs fixing it's your father. I'm sorry he put you through all of this. It was his idea."

Rage swelled in me. "Do you even love him? Or Grandpa?"

"I'm not the one he cares about," she replied bitterly. "You wouldn't answer his calls or messages either. And you know what? He told me to tell you to have an ear—"

I ended the call before she could.

Sighing, I shoved the phone in my coat pocket and paced the wide expanse of the GreenGlass company building lobby. Against one wall was a pushing cart with wrapped fried noodles, rice, chicken strips and—inevitably—pizza from our company's anniversary. Asides from myself, the security cameras, the tight-lipped receptionist and the occasional employee heading home, the lobby was deserted. A chill seeped through the sliding doors. I tried to look outside, but the lobby lights contrasted with the somber evening only reflected myself, with muted shades of my blazer. October had gone into hard fall. Why hadn't I taken my car today? Exercise was the classic answer to whoever asked. However I didn't look forward to walking home while my mind was like scattered raindrops.

"Are you waiting for someone?" the receptionist asked. Alek passed by, aware or pretending not to notice our exchange. The sliding doors shut behind him. My skin tingled at the gust of chilly air.

"No," I managed. It always seemed that way, didn't it?

Cold air slithered on my skin as my heels met the sidewalk. In seconds my fingers were numb. The moon was hidden by fast-moving clouds, and a breeze whipped up a frenzy of dead leaves. Zipping up my jacket, I walked in the opposite direction of my condo. Iron lamp posts guided me past the darkened windows of La Pâtisserie Dans La Lune. I imagined Hannah chatting with Danielle, Alek and Brian as if she had known them for a much longer time. Then, a bus stop. The shelter had been removed, replaced with a blank square of cement. A single night on the streets could change your perception of the world. If only it was swapping people's faces with their shoes. Despite my waning cash, I had resisted begging.

Did Mom see me that way? Or perhaps, it aroused the familiar resentment to hear Dad ask me for a second chance, like I was a replacement for Allison. I crossed the road to the plaza, where the sign of Coop's Bistro flapped in the wind. Its door swung open. Laughing, slightly drunk patrons poured out into the night.

I was overcome with shame. Plenty of others had their fair share of failed relationships. College alone had been a whirlwind of romantic drama. But while others were concerned with finding their true match, pleasing their lover—at least, that was what it seemed—each breakup was another confirmation that a part of myself was permanently broken. I squeezed the key in my pocket. Involuntarily, the outline of a woman's visage with braided hair flickered and disappeared like a brushstroke. Their faces followed. Faces I refused to put a name to, but their lips fit the same shapes of discomfort, incredulity and the filter of someone who would never understand why. I didn't know the answer either.

With my hand hovering over the door's handle, I decided against it. I needed to stop feeding the cycle of work, exhaustion, hooking up and breaking off. Ducking away before anyone could recognize my silhouette, I returned to wandering. My sense of direction let me stay conscious of my surroundings, only thanks to hours of exploring new big cities. But as long as it was built with some degree of organization in mind, the roads and the way they converged and diverged to curve around neighborhoods carried a delightful sort of logic. There was always more than one route to reach the same destination.

Leaning against a brick wall, I no longer felt the cold. My feet weren't quite touching the ground, and my arms didn't belong to myself. The out-of-body sensation was standard after Unlocking for an extended period. I hadn't realized that I was doing it unconsciously, summoning up memories of the past. Loosening the grip on my key, I exhaled and tried to relax. GreenGlass hadn't alleviated my troubles as it usually did. Sleeping outside had an adventurous edge, I thought. Then, guilt emerged from these thoughts, and I walked into its arms. Freedom like this shouldn't cost so little. I had responsibilities to fulfill, for the betterment of myself and others. The MacIntyre house had regulated me from indulging in my self-absorbed whims. My eyes had run out of tears to shed. Like two wrinkly hands, a memory clasped my mind in its grasp, blacking out the world.

This was the easiest chapter to write. I love introspection. Nora being an extrovert is hard to write. Soooo much talking. But here, finally, it's all depressing thoughts to swim in :D