#d.w

The day you sold the house, the air smelled of rot and varnish. Bobby stood on the porch steps counting through papers, his thumb marking each corner like he was blessing them. You watched from the yard, the grass grown wild up to your knees, the color of seaglass. It didn’t feel like an ending. Endings were loud and final; this one just sighed.

The house looked bigger without your mother’s things inside. Empty shelves, pale squares on the walls where pictures once hung. You walked through the rooms one last time, fingertips trailing along the faded wallpaper as if you could memorize the dust. The floorboards still creaked in the same places, as though the house was breathing through its bones.

“Come on, Birdy,” Bobby called. His voice was patient, gravelly from years of coffee and rust. “Ain’t no use standin’ in there like a ghost.”

You turned, and the word caught in your ribs. Ghost. Maybe that’s what you were—a soft echo of what the place used to hold.

You left with only two boxes and a jar of pinned beetles wrapped in an old pillowcase. Bobby had made a space for you at his house—the small spare room overlooking the salvage yard. You tried to hate it at first but it was better than the alternative one, at least this room has enough room for a desk. The constant metallic scent, the groan of old engines. But it was a kind of music, too. Predictable. Steady.

In the mornings, you woke to the sound of Bobby clattering pans downstairs. He always made too much breakfast— pancakes, bacon, eggs— and left a plate warming on the stovetop with a note: Eat, Birdy. You did. Then you’d slip outside, finding your way through the maze of cars and weeds to the field beyond. That’s where the light came soft and gold, the kind that turned everything holy for a minute.

You brought your books with you— dog eared gothic novels and field guides to insects. You taught yourself words you liked the shape of: chrysalis, sepulcher, phosphorescent. They were your small spells against the world. Bobby thought it was just reading; he didn’t know how you whispered them under your breath when the air felt too still, as though you could conjure something to fill the hollow.

He let you be. That was the best thing about Bobby. He didn’t hover. Some nights he’d find you in the kitchen with a jar of moths or a pile of old newspaper clippings, and he’d only grunt, “Don’t stay up too late.” Before heading to bed. It was the kind of love that didn’t need declaring.

You spent that summer learning his house the way you once learned your mama’s moods—how the pipes ticked when it was about to rain, the way the floorboards dipped by the doorway. The front room smelled of leather and oil; the curtains were always half-drawn. Bobby kept stacks of papers everywhere, scribbled notes in the margins. You didn’t ask about them. You figured they were about his “hunting” trips, the ones you pictured in flannel woods with deer blinds and thermoses of coffee. Sometimes he’d come home with bruises or a cut on his arm, muttering about “a bad trail.” And you’d bring him the first aid kit. That was your routine: unspoken, practical, safe.

But every so often, when the light flickered strange or a chill moved through the room with no window open, you’d feel that same uneasy wonder you’d had since you were a child staring into the cornfields. Something beneath the skin of things, pulsing faintly. You’d shake it off. Probably a trick of air, you told yourself. Houses made noises; people did too.

By midsummer, the rhythm of the place had wrapped itself around you. Wake, read, wander, help Bobby with whatever needed doing. You stopped going to school. The teachers stopped calling after a while, and Bobby didn’t push. “You’re learnin’ fine here.” He’d said, half-distracted over his paperwork. You believed him. The world felt larger when you didn’t have to sit in a classroom pretending to understand people your age.

You learned instead from the things that stayed still long enough for you to study them: moth wings, the way rust bloomed on metal, the steady patience of old books. You were content in that quiet, though sometimes, at night, you dreamed of footsteps—strangers walking through the salvage yard, their shadows long against the headlights.

It was a Thursday when the sound changed. You were in the yard sorting rusted bolts with the intention of making a necklace of them, the air heavy with heat and the promise of a storm. The cicadas had gone silent, that particular hush that means something’s coming. You felt it first before you heard it— a vibration in the ground, low and steady.

Then the engine.

Out there, sound carried strange— distant storms, insects, the screen door yawning open and shut in the breeze. Bobby’s place was quieter than the house you had left behind; it has a different sort of loneliness, steady and clean. You’d started to believe the world ended at that fence line.

But this was different. It was the kind of car sound that didn’t belong to local farmers or travelers passing through. This one purred, deep and proud, like it knew what it was. You looked up, shielding your eyes from the glare of the sun off the hood as it turned into the drive. Black. Glossy even under the dust.

You stayed where you were, bolts in hand. The car came to a stop near the porch. Bobby stepped out from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag. You saw him stiffen slightly, like recognizing a memory he’d buried deep down. The driver’s door opened first—a tall man, hard lines around the mouth, a kind of distance in his stance. But his face melted slightly into a warm smile as he greeted Bobby with a nod of his head.

Then the other doors opened, and two boys got out.

The smaller one— brown hair too long, cautious eyes— stuck close to the other’s side. The taller one hung back, half leaning on the car, arms crossed. He looked like someone who’d learned to stand his ground young. There was a smirk at the corner of his mouth that didn’t quite fit the weariness behind his eyes.

The older man spoke to Bobby, you don’t move. Voices drifted in the wind: Thanks for taking them in again… won’t be long… appreciate it. Bobby nodded and then the older man gave the boys a short hug before getting back in the Impala. You watched the car disappear down the road until even the dust settled. When it did, the world felt smaller.

The boys stood there awkwardly in the settling dust. Bobby called something to you— maybe your name, maybe just “Birdy, come say hi.”— but the wind carried it off.

You turned instead toward the field, pretending to study the sky, the bolts still warm in your hands. A faint roll of thunder moved across the horizon, and for a moment, everything smelled of rain and iron.

You didn’t know it yet, but the world had shifted a little. Just enough for something new to find its way in.

Later inside, the kitchen swelled with the smell of onions and the soft hiss of soup that you had helped prepare earlier that day. Bobby gestured with the ladle. “Set out three more bowls, Birdy.”

You did. The table looked wrong, suddenly formal, like a photograph of someone else’s house. The brothers sat side by side, still wearing the road on their faces. Bobby talked about the rain coming, about how the sump pump would act up again. The younger one, Sam— you had learned their names after a very awkward introduction— nodded politely, trying to follow. The older one, Dean, answered when spoken to, his voice humorous but distant.

You focused on small things: the way the light trembled in the windowpane, the crack in one of the plates, how your spoon felt heavy in your hand. You measured your words, let silence stretch where it wanted. The rain began as a scatter of drops, the kind that sound like someone walking on the roof in soft shoes.

A flicker ran through the light above the table. The radio hummed once, a quick surge of static, and cut out. Bobby swore quietly and disappeared down the hall toward the fuse box. All that was left with the sound of breathing and the rain thickening outside.

Dean’s eyes caught on the jars that lined the shelf “What’s with all the bugs?” he asked. His tone wasn’t mocking, just curious. You nodded. “I preserve them. Pin and mount.” He leaned slightly to see better, the lamp glancing off glass. “They look alive.”

“Almost,” you said. You couldn’t tell if that was agreement or correction you muttered. No one talked after that. The storm closed in, a rolling voice across the fields.

When supper was done, Bobby showed them the other spare room upstairs, only big enough to barely fit in two beds and a dresser. You stayed behind, rinsing plates under the low hum of the bulb. The air felt different with strangers in it; the house exhaled in new rhythms. You wiped down the counter, listening to the wind pick up through the gutters.

You checked the shelf again. Your collection gleamed under lamplight— moths, beetles, dragonflies— all pinned in perfect stillness. You thought about how fragile wings were, how easily beauty breaks if you look too long. Your mama had once said everything holy had a shadow; you never knew what she meant until then, standing there in a room that’s too still.

The thunder came closer. For a moment the floor seemed to vibrate. You told yourself it was the storm.

Upstairs, the boards creaked; muffled voices passed, then faded. The sound of them settling felt oddly comforting, like hearing wind move through trees after weeks of silence. You dried your hands on a towel, turned off the light, and climbed the stairs.

Your room smelled faintly of cedar and petrichor. You left the window open a few inches, enough for the air to stir the curtains. Out beyond the porch, the yard had turned to watercolor: mud, tin, and the faint orange halo of the security lamp. You sat at your desk and studied the specimens again. The glass fogged slightly with your breath.

It’s a small thing, you thought, to keep what time ruins. To hold something still enough that it can’t leave you.

When you laid down, the storm was already moving east, taking its rumble with it. You traced the pattern of water stains on the ceiling until your eyes blurred. Somewhere below, Bobby’s chair creaked; down the corridor, a door shut. The whole house hummed with ordinary life, but you felt something else underneath— something like a heartbeat, soft and constant.

You listened until you couldn’t tell if it was the rain or yourself. The quiet settled back into the walls. You breathed it in, heavy with dust and comfort.

Nothing has changed, you told yourself, not really. Still, you kept listening, as if the house might answer.

The storm passed in the night, leaving behind air that smelled like wet iron and split oak. You awoke to a world rinsed of color— grey light pressing through the curtains, a sky still heavy with its own exhaustion. The first thing you heard was Bobby’s voice downstairs, half-drowned by the creak of the old floorboards and the murmur of a coffee pot.

You dressed slow, each motion deliberate. Mornings were now gentler compared to before, but you still braced yourself for the sharp edges. When you stepped into the kitchen, Bobby glanced up with his usual half-smile. “Mornin’, Birdy.”

“Morning.” You echoed. The brothers were already there— Sam slouched at the table, hair mussed from sleep; Dean stood by the window, the shape of him washed in the cold light. His hand rested against the glass as though testing the temperature of the day.

You poured yourself a cup of coffee and sat, the steam a gentle caress. It wasn’t silence exactly, what filled the room—it was more like the steady hum of people learning to exist around one another.

Bobby talked about the downed branches, about fixing the shed roof before it caves. You nodded when he looked your way, though your mind was elsewhere— on the fields, on the faint echo of thunder that still seemed to pulse beneath the earth.

By that afternoon, the sun pushed through. You found yourself out in the yard, hands dirt-streaked, helping Bobby gather splintered wood into neat piles. The boys carried tools from the shed, voices low and indistinct. The air hummed with gnats.

Dean passed close enough that you caught a trace of something on his jacket—motor oil and pine, sharp and intoxicating. You thought about saying something, but words felt like a clumsy tool at that moment.

Instead, you nodded when he handed you a hammer, fingers gently brushing, and he nodded back. A small, wordless exchange that settled into the quiet like a stone in water.

That evening, after supper, you lingered on the porch steps while Bobby dozed in his chair. The boys sat in the yard with a flashlight between them, the beam cut pale arcs through the dark. Moths danced in the glow, fragile and endless.

You imagined pinning one later on— preserving its wings in glass. You thought about stillness, how sometimes it’s the only thing left when everything else moves on. The wind carried the low hum of laughter. You almost smiled.

The next morning drew in softer, a blue so thin it could tear. The smell of dew clung to the window frames, and the house felt half-asleep. Bobby headed into town early, leaving the three of you to tend to chores.

You swept the kitchen while the brothers worked outside. The rhythm of their voices floated through the screen door— small arguments about nails and angles, laughter cutting through it. There was something steadying about it, like background music for a life that almost felt ordinary.

When the broom snagged on the rug, you knelt to fix it and found a dead beetle tucked beneath the edge. Perfect, whole, a small miracle of symmetry. You held it in your palm a long while before setting it aside for later.

In the end you found yourself in the kitchen sorting jars, trying to decide which of the empty ones were worth keeping for displaying your treasures. Dust motes turned slow circles in the sunbeam. You were halfway through when you heard footsteps behind you.

Dean leaned on the doorframe freshly chopped logs in hand. “You always kept to yourself?” he asked. You didn’t look up right away. “You always questioning people?” He laughed, short and surprised. “Guess you got me there.”

You set a jar down and glanced over your shoulder. He was still there, easy-shouldered but not careless, eyes scanning the shelves. “You weren’t kidding when you said you collected bugs, seems like a weird hobby for a girl, don’t ya think?” he said. “Thought it was some joke.”

Asshat. You gestured toward the glass cases by the window. “Most people think that until they see them.” you looked into those green eyes, “And for the record, I don’t think it’s weird, I’m just preserving nature before it inevitably decays and becomes whole with the earth again.”

He stepped closer, bending to look. “These are… weirdly beautiful.” You nearly rolled your eyes. “You can say creepy. Everyone else does.” You remembered how the boys at your school used to hurl insults at you, creep, weirdo, witch. Not that it bothered you, but boys tended to be mean to girls like you.

“Nah.” He studied a pinned cicada, the sunlight spilling through its wings. “They look like they’re holding their breath.” You liked that, what he said, how he said it— but you didn’t show it, your hands just kept wiping the rim of a jar. The air smelled of lemon soap and rain that hadn’t fallen yet.

After a while he said, “You from around here?” You nodded. “Couple neighbourhoods over. My mama… she’s not well. So Bobby took me in. He’s like my uncle, sorta.”

He nodded, slow. “Our dad’s always on the road. His job keeps him busy, always in the move, that kind of thing. We get around a lot.”

You hummed in response. “Must get lonely.” He shrugged. “Sometimes. But you get used to it. Plus there’s dad and Sam, so it’s not that bad. Family is important.”

The words hung between you, heavy and ordinary all at once. You met his green eyes for the first time. “I don’t think you really do. Get used to it, I mean.” The corner of his mouth lifted— not quite a smile, but close enough to pass for one. “Maybe not.”

But even after he looked away, you couldn’t. His words lingered like a bruise you kept pressing. Family is important. You turned it over in your head, as though saying it enough times might make it true for you, too. Only it wasn’t. Not really.

For you, family had been something that decayed quietly in the dark— a mother’s laughter that curdled into slurred hymns at 3 a.m., a father’s shadow that never crossed the threshold again. Bobby had been the first person to stay, to plant something solid in the ruin. You didn’t know what to call that, not yet, but it felt steadier than anything that came before.

Still, hearing Dean talk about it so easily, so sure, made something ache in you. It wasn’t envy exactly, but close— like seeing sunlight hit a window in a house you’d already left behind.

You wanted to tell him that family wasn’t always holy. That sometimes it rotted, quietly, without anyone noticing. That sometimes love didn’t save you— it just watched you fall apart. But you didn’t.

You just nodded, small and polite, and turned back to your jars, letting the moment settle into the hum of the house. He lingered there another heartbeat, eyes catching on you like he might say something else, and then he didn’t.

Family. A hymn you didn’t know the tune to, but couldn’t stop humming anyway.

Dean proceeded to tightening the rope that kept the tarp over the firewood stack. You looked out the window. The sky was a hard, empty blue.

You stood a few feet away, the sunlight painting everything with that late-summer glare that made edges hum. “You ever get tired of it?” you asked. He glanced over. “Of what?”

“Leaving. Starting over.” You replied almost heavily. He thought about it. “Yeah. But sometimes staying feels worse.” You looked down at your hands. There was a faint smear of dirt on your wrist that wouldn’t come off. “Guess we both know about that.”

He nodded once, and the rope slipped from his fingers. For a moment you both watched it swing, a slow pendulum against the stacked wood. Then he said, almost quietly, “You’ll like it here. Bobby’s solid. The kind of man that keeps things from falling apart.” A faint smile painted itself across your lips. “Someone has to.” you said. He nodded at that.

The moment stretched— nothing more than the low hum of the fridge and the faint pulse of summer insects through the screen door. Then Sam yelled from outside, breaking whatever quiet had been growing. Dean straightened, half-grinning “Duty calls.”

You watched him go, the back door slamming softly behind him. The kitchen felt too still after he’d gone, as if the air hadn’t caught up with itself.

That evening you all sat together on the porch drinking the homemade lemonade you’d made two days ago.

Sam sipped quietly, you had the feeling that he was fairly shy. “So Birdy, what’s with the nickname, do you sing like a bird?” Dean asked jokingly.

You shook your head. “Bobby’s name for me. Says I’ve got a habit of leaving rooms like they’re cages.” He laughed softly. “Could be worse.” You paused and looked at him quizzically. “How?” He glanced over at Sam with mischief in his eyes. “You could be like Sam. He once tried to call himself ‘Boywonder’ for a week.”

Sam blushed in embarrassment as he avoided eye contact with you. “Dean!” He exclaimed, voice cracking a bit. “You promised not to tell that story.” Dean’s grin tilted toward you. “Some things deserve an audience.”

You let out an airy, almost inaudible laugh, the sound foreign in your own mouth but light enough to float. The sun shining behind the fields, painting everything the color of honey. For a while, it almost felt like the world had stopped moving.

After that you sat on the steps, watching the sunlight filter through the slats. For a while, no one talked. The quiet stretches thin as wire. You could pluck it and make a sound like the inside of your own chest.

The next day, you went to a nearby town with Bobby. The boys came too—Dean, the only one old to drive, at the wheel, Bobby navigating with a folded map that’s seen too many years. The road sung beneath the tires. Out the window, the fields spread endless and gold, the horizon a sea of trees.

In town, everything smelled like asphalt and stale bread. You trailed behind the others in the hardware store, running your fingers along rows of tools and jars of screws, fascinated by how neatly chaos can be contained.

Back home, the evening settled in thick and slow. Dinner was quiet— spoon against plates, chair legs scraping wood. Bobby told a story about a dog he once had, and Sam laughed in the right places. Dean didn’t speak much. Neither did you.

When the meal was done, you slipped outside again. The sky now turned that strange lilac color it gets before darkness fully claims it. The air smelled of sawdust and honeysuckle. You thought about your mama again—how she used to say the world talks if you learn its language. You wondered what it’s saying now.

By the time the house went still, it was close to midnight. You sat at the kitchen table with a chipped mug of tea brewing between your palms. The only light came from the stove bulb, dim and amber, making everything look half-forgotten.

The floorboards creaked. You looked up to see Dean in the doorway, hair damp from a shower, t-shirt wrinkled, socks mismatched. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked. The yellow light of the corridor behind him made the room look sepia, like an old photograph left too long in the sun.

You shook your head. “Never been good at it.” He came in, pulled out a chair, it groaned in protest. “Guess you’re one of those people who think too much at night.” You smiled faintly. “And you’re not?” He huffed. “Only when there’s nothing else to do.”

He motioned his head towards your mug. “Tea?” he said, eyeing the chipped cup. You nodded toward the counter. “There’s some left. It’s nothing fancy. Just chamomile, helps me sleep.”

He got up and poured a cup and then sat back down across from you, elbows on the table. For a moment neither of you spoke. The clock ticked loud in the silence. You hit your rip then decided to speak. “How about you?”He smiled faintly. “Never sleep well when we’ve stopped somewhere new.”

You took a short sip, the warm liquid trailing down your throat like nectar. “How long do you usually stay?” He thought for a moment.“A week. Maybe two, if dad’s job runs long.” He tilted his head, studying the steam curling from his cup. “Then it’s back on the road.”

You leaned back against your chair, drawing your knees up to your chest. “Doesn’t that get tiring?” Dean gave a small laugh, one that didn’t sound particularly amused. “You get used to it.

After a while, unpacking starts to feel stranger than driving.”You turned that over, unsure how to respond. “I’ve only ever lived in one place. Well— two now, I guess.” He nodded. “Bobby’s a good man. You’re lucky to have him.”Your eyes settled on the table, studying the grain of the stained wood. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I know.”For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then you asked, “Do you ever miss it?” He glanced at you. “Miss what?” The night pressed against the windows, and a moth battered itself against the glass, frantic and aimless. “Home.” You said quietly. He paused, like the word was foreign. “We don’t really have one. Just places we stop in between.”

Steam curled between you, carrying the faint smell of chamomile and rust. “You ever miss where you came from?” he echoed your question back. You traced a finger along the rim of your mug. “I don’t know. I think I just miss the idea of home. The real thing was never much to miss.”

He looked at you a long time then, eyes steady but softened by the dark. “That’s rough.” You shrugged. “Life’s rough. We make do.” That made him look at you differently— like he wanted to ask more but didn’t want to break the moment.

He drummed his fingers against the table. “Guess I know what you mean. Sometimes I get this picture in my head— me, Sam, dad— like we’re normal. Like we belong somewhere. Then I blink, and it’s gone.” You smiled sadly. “Maybe that’s what home is,” you said. “The blink before it disappears.” He looked down at his mug, eyebrows furrowed in thought.

He took a sip of tea and winced. “Hot.” You couldn’t help laughing, quiet but real, and it startled you how easy it felt. “Careful,” you said. “You’ll burn your tongue.” He wiped his mouth and rolled his eyes playfully. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” he said, smiling into his cup. “Maybe it’d teach me to shut up.” The house sighed around you, wood settling, the faint hum of night pressing at the windows.

He traced the patterns of the ceramic in front of him. Outside, the wind shifted through the trees. You two sat in comfortable yet thoughtful silence. When he finally stood, his chair scraping against the floor, you looked at him a little startled at the broken silence. He placed his mug in the sink and offered you a soft, unreadable look and muttered, “Goodnight, Birdy. Thanks for the tea.” You nodded and looked back down at your mug as he turned his back. But then his steps halted and you looked up. Dean stood in the threshold of the kitchen door. “Get some rest.” He said.

You gulped, his eyes looked like emeralds. “Yeah, you too.” He smiled in thanks and you listened to his footsteps fade down the hall. The tea had gone cold in your hands, but you didn’t move.

It was strange, you thought, how someone could live their whole life in motion and still seem so still inside— and how you could stay in one place and still feel like you were always leaving.

You stayed at the table a while longer, tracing the rings his mug had left on the wood. They looked almost like halos, fading slow, but still there if you caught them in the right light. The air still felt warm where he’d been sitting.

You told yourself you wouldn’t think about him after he left the room. But you did.

You woke a little after sunrise. The air felt wrong, unsettled. You knew before you heard the sound of tires on gravel that they’d be leaving today. You came down the stairs and paused in the doorway. Dean stood there, half in sunlight, half in shadow, folding a shirt that looked as if it had been washed too many times.

He looked up. "Hey. Didn't mean to wake you." You tilted your at his words. "You didn't." You said. You crossed to the counter and poured yourself coffee. The cup clinked against the pot— too loud for the hour. The silence that followed felt familiar now, the sort that lived between people who didn't know what to say but didn't mind the gap.

Bobby looked over from the stove. “Their daddy called yesterday night.” You nodded, and something inside you shifted. You hadn’t realised how quickly almost three days could become a rhythm.

Bobby’s went to the yard after that, talking with their father—two men speaking in that wordless language of long acquaintance. Sam carried his bags to the car, then he loaded the last bag and gave you a wave and a sleepy grin.

You gave small smile a wave back. You stood by the door with your coffee going cold in your hands. You weren’t sure if you should’ve gone out there, or stayed where you were. In the end, you chose the porch.

Dean stepped through the front door in the pale morning light, bag slung over his shoulder. The air outside was cold enough to turn breath to smoke, the fields still glazed in a thin layer of silver dew. Sam was waiting by the truck, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he listened do Bobby and John talk, but Dean lingered near the porch steps, one hand resting on the rail.

“Well,” he said, voice soft but steady. “Guess that’s us.” You wanted to find something to give him— some small, a wordless thing that might say I’ll remember you without the weight of saying it aloud. But all you had were words, and they felt clumsy, too fragile to survive the morning air between you.

“Safe travels,” you managed finally. He nodded, eyes steady on yours. “Take care of Bobby. And yourself, Birdy.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing good came. Your throat ached, that strange hollow pressure that always came with wanting to speak and not knowing how. You gave him a small, tight-lipped smile. “I will.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. The light caught in his hair, made him look almost translucent, like the kind of memory you’d forget was real. He looked at you, his hand tightening once on the railing. It looked like he might say something more, something that would bridge the quiet hanging between you— but then you blinked and the car door shut, and whatever it was stayed between you and the dust rising off the tires.

You shivered once, like the earth itself had taken your breath and decided to keep it. The air was thick with all the things unsaid—the goodbye that could’ve been, the strange ache left in the wake of something you couldn’t yet name.

You stood on the porch until the black car turned down the gravel road, its engine growing smaller and smaller until it blended into the hum of morning. You didn’t know why your chest hurt— only that it did. No one had ever left you gently before. They’d always vanished in noise, in glass breaking, in slammed doors and bitter air. This leaving was different: softer, but somehow crueler for it.

Bobby came up behind you not long after, he’d gone in to put down a letter John had given him, his boots dragging against the porch boards as he returned. “They gone?”You nodded.

“They’ve got good hearts, those boys,” he said, rubbing at his jaw. “They’ll be back soon enough. Their dad’s always dropping ’em here one way or another.”

You hoped that back soon meant something solid, not just another empty promise the wind would carry off. You wanted to believe him but belief felt like a child’s thing, and you’d lost the knack for it. So you just nodded again, eyes on the road where the dust was still drifting in the light, golden and slow.

The morning settled around you, damp and hushed. The screen door slapped shut behind Bobby, leaving you alone on the porch. The air smelled of oil and pine, just like Dean, the faint sweetness of the syrup he’d used on pancakes the last couple of days still clinging to the house.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, not from the cold, but from the sudden stillness that filled the space where his voice had been. The sun climbed higher. The dew burned away. The world went on like it hadn’t noticed a thing. But you had…

And though you didn’t know why, you found yourself standing at the window long after, looking at the space where the truck had been, feeling the silence stretch its long, patient arms around you.

By noon that day, the house felt cavernous again. You moved through it like a ghost, touching objects to remind them they were still seen—the coffee pot, the back of Bobby’s chair, the empty shelf where Sam’s book had sat for nearly three days.

You found yourself at your desk, turning the dead beetle from the day before over in your palm. The shell caught the light, green and gold, a small universe of reflection.

You pinned it carefully, labelled it in your neatest handwriting. The act felt like prayer, like preservation against forgetting. Outside, the fields hummed with late-summer insects. The world kept turning, soft and relentless.

Bobby called from the kitchen, asking if you wanted pie. His voice was rough with exhaustion, gentle in its own way. You answered yes, though you weren’t hungry, your stomach churning with an emptiness that drove you sick.

After you’d forced yourself to eat, you cleaned the kitchen just to fill the air with sound—the tap running, the clatter of dishes. When the floor was dry again, you climbed the stairs to your room.

When night came, you sat by the window and listened to the house breathe. The smell of incoming summer showers was gone, replaced by wood smoke and cooling metal. Somewhere in the dark, a dog cried—a long, hollow sound that threaded itself through your ribs. You thought of the road stretching out beyond the fields, of the dust that never really settled.

And to yourself you thought, maybe this is how it always starts: not with fire, but with silence. Your mind stirred, like a ghost you sat at your desk and opened your notebook, the one where you wrote down fragments of things: insects found, dreams remembered, storms survived.

You added a line without thinking: Three days of dust and light, and the road took them back.

You closed the book and headed back to the window seat and rested your head against the glass. Outside, the fields turned the color of tarnished iron. Somewhere, far off, an engine purred, then faded.

The house exhaled; you breathed with it. And for the first time in a long while, the quiet felt like something you couldn’t keep.

a/n: thank you so much for reading chapter two! out of curiosity would people prefer shorter chapters or longer ones? i tend to write long ones but i can always split them in half if people want. :)

also! i’m making a taglist so let me know if you want to be added <3

yours forever,

fawn