He climbed the steps, his key trembling in his hand. The lock was rusted but gave way. The door swung open, letting him into the past. The air inside smelled of dust and salt. Sheets over the furniture shifted in the draft like specters.
He walked down the hallway. Every footstep echoed. This was where Ethan used to run in the mornings, where Sarah used to laugh. He stopped at the door to the nursery. Moonlight spilled through a gap in the curtains. He pushed the door open. Someone was sitting on the bed. A thin boy, hunched by the window.
He was watching the wooden bird spin outside. At the sound of footsteps, he spun around, grabbing a wooden stick like a weapon.
— “Go away!” he shouted hoarsely. “This is my house!”
Andrew froze. The air left his lungs.
— “Ethan!” he choked out.
The boy scowled.
— “Don’t call me that. My name is Matthew. Get out!”
He was pale and thin, but his eyes—they were the same. Bright, clear, and full of life. His mother’s eyes.
— “I’m not going to hurt you,” Andrew said softly. “I… I’m your father.”
— “Everyone says that!” the boy cried, his voice breaking. “Everyone lies!”
He was shaking, clutching the stick tight.
— “You had a dog,” Andrew said. “A big chocolate lab. Buddy. He used to chase the seagulls. Remember?”
The boy went still.
— “Buddy,” he repeated, barely audible. “He barked, but the birds were too fast…”
Tears began to track down his face.
— “How do you know that?”
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