《Three Nights Home》 Moving in I haul the final box upstairs into the apartment and drop it on the floor with huff. I should¡¯ve moved back into the old trailer house next door, but this was smaller and I didn¡¯t need a lot of room. I slide to the floor with a slouch, looking into the old living room. The old rug stayed, sitting in the middle of the wooden floor as it always had. The Aloe Vera still grew in the cloudy windowsill, the opaque glass providing just the right amount of light. I lean my head back against the wooden wall to my back hoping to dissuade gravity from pulling the tears out of my eyes. I looked at the mantle over the long since unused fireplace, glancing over the old sepia photographs and the framed folded flag. I let out a ragged sigh and pull myself to my feet, walking over for a closer look. I pickup the old pocket watch and run my thumb over the insignia before setting it back next to the other trinkets commemorating my grandfather. I drag the palms of my hands over my blurry eyes to wipe away the accumulating tears. It¡¯s been decades, but it still feels like a crushing weight on my chest when I think about it too long. I turn the corner and face the apartment''s single hallway, stretching back to the bathroom with the attic to my left and the two bedrooms on the right. The old wooden floor creaks underneath my feet in all the same places as I pass the master bedroom, opting instead to set up residence in the guest room at the back of the hall. With some effort I get the old lightswitch to flip on and after several long seconds of humming and whirring the light complies, that with the light from the windows illuminates the sky blue walls. Most of the decor that was in here when I was a child was replaced after my grandmother remarried. The faded family portrait of my teenaged father and his parents that once consumed the entire wall above the bed was replaced with a fancy bed frame with a mirror and compartments for jewelry. I take a seat on the bed and examine the frame, planning out where my belongings will fit, and I notice a glimpse of something in one of them. I reach in and retrieve a silver chain necklace with three white pearls. As I run my fingers over the small pearls I determine that they are in fact real, they are separated from each other to prevent them from damaging one another and they don¡¯t have the plastic texture or perfect roundness of the beads used as imitation, instead each is smooth to the touch and has slight imperfections in their shape the way organic pearls do. My grandmother never wore jewelry like this; I would¡¯ve remembered this piece, but no one has been here since she and her husband moved out, opting to spend their golden years touring the world with each other on a never ending string of cruises. The necklace continues to perplex me as I run through all its possible owners in my head, if it had belonged to Nana she would have taken it with her, or if she had forgotten it she would have forgotten in the master bedroom in a safe place not in the guest bedrooms bed frame, it could be my mothers forgotten after a visit but I can¡¯t imagine her leaving it here from her last visit to now without noticing. I shake my head with a sigh, it could belong to someone on Grandys side, I don¡¯t know enough about any of them to rule that out, even if it is theirs I don¡¯t have any contact information for them. I slide the necklace into my pocket for the moment to allow myself to return to unpacking. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. After settling in with all my belongings in their new place, I return to drifting through the old apartment like a ghost, interacting with small objects here and there but mainly just floating room to room. I always feel like a ghost here, a ghost of the present haunting the past. I leave the master bedroom closed. Even though this place was given to me I do not feel like the master of this house, I can¡¯t bring myself to claim ownership of that room. Instead I enter the attic, pulling the string that turns on the single bulb to this room. Warm light washes over the wooden platform built atop the insulation and support beams of the skating rink ceiling. The platform itself has a single path left vacant for walking through the piles of boxes and loose belongings. As I wander through I let my eyes linger on all the memories it catches. The wooden rocking horse that used to sit behind the recliner until I grew too big to ride it, the handful of VHS tapes of the animated movies that had scenes I was afraid of as a child and couldn¡¯t finish watching, the by now extremely outdated encyclopedia that still had a bookmark on the page with the entry about fairies, and things that are older than my memory that belong to my brothers childhood, or even my fathers, all of it covered in a fine layer of the dust that swirls through the air. I come to the end of the path that circled me back to the door and pull the string, turning the room dark again as I close the door behind me. The decor throughout the apartment is mostly the same as it was when I was young, I don¡¯t really feel any need to change it, I don¡¯t have anything to replace most of it with anyways. So instead I just clean, wash all the blankets on the couch, throw away any expired food in the pantry, clean out the fridge, wash the dishes, get rid of the dust that coats practically everything. By the end of the day I collapse onto the guest room bed too tired to even change clothes. The sweatpants and t-shirt I wore for move in day are comfortable enough that I have no trouble drifting off to sleep regardless, besides I was going to change the bedsheets tomorrow anyways. As my consciousness fades my mind can¡¯t help but wander back to the rink below me, how the thump of the music and the quiet roar of the people used to lull me to sleep. The Rink I¡¯m jolted awake by the sound of the train passing by, I used to be able to sleep through it, apparently I am no longer accustomed to the sound. As the piercing blast of the train''s horn fades though, another sound becomes evident under it, as if there¡¯s music playing in the speakers downstairs, I can hear the thump of the beat and also, voices, a lot of voices all mixed together indecipherable. I jump out of bed and slide on some slippers, rushing out of the room and down the hall to the front door. I hurry down the stairs and when I¡¯ve reached the bottom I freeze. The furniture in the front sitting room has changed. In the left corner there''s an old piano we threw away when I was ten, the fold out couch that was down here has turned back into the old futon we had when I was a child and when my eyes sweep to the right the air catches in my throat. My grandfather, who passed away when I was thirteen, is sitting at his desk. This is his office, this was his office, he would sit here at his desk and watch old western movies on the tiny box television on that shelf, the empty sprite cans he spit his tobacco into lined up beside him, just like this. I can barely hear the music anymore, my heartbeat is too loud in my ears, he¡¯s been dead for decades, but he¡¯s sitting right there, chewing on a cigar watching a movie, he isn¡¯t even hooked up to an oxygen tank. I feel like I¡¯m going to puke, tears start dripping off my chin, I hadn¡¯t even realized I was crying. I¡¯m barely breathing, the room is spinning, no I¡¯m just falling. I hit the floor hyperventilating, sobbing, shaking, I can¡¯t even properly think but he doesn¡¯t seem alarmed. In fact, he didn¡¯t seem alarmed to see me when I came down the stairs. For a moment I wonder if I might be dead, but then the heavy door behind me is pushed open with a small grunt of effort, and a little girl runs straight through me up to my grandfather. It¡¯s me, around age six, asking him if I can have a soda and a candy bar. ¡°Bring me a Sprite.¡± That¡¯s what he always said, his condition for letting me do anything and everything I wanted, all it ever cost me was bringing him a Sprite. Six-year-old me turns and runs back into the other room without another word and moments later returns with a Hershey bar and two Sprites. No more is said between the two as she sets everything on the desk and pulls herself into his lap. Once she¡¯s gotten settled comfortably she grabs her Sprite and after a fruitless moment or two of fiddling with the tab she hands it to him. He cracks it open for her and she holds it in both hands, sipping it loudly while watching the black and white cowboy movie that she doesn¡¯t understand. My panic attack has subsided, but the tears linger along with the knot in my throat as I watch my young self in one of the countless moments I had spent years wishing to experience just one more time. I remain there on the floor until my heartbeat subsides and the loud thump of the music and now even louder voices is audible once more. I pull myself to my feet though I don¡¯t really want to, and after several long lingering moments of basking in the love I remember from this moment in my life I turn and enter the skating rink. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. As soon as I step through the doorway the sound of the music washes over me. I can tell what song it is now, something by Brittney Spears I think, it¡¯s been a while. I take a few more steps into the back counter area of the skating rink, the wall on my left lined with rental skates, the wall to my right opening up into the same thing, and in front of me the counter with my grandfather''s tools for fixing broken skates. I hear my grandmother around the corner, she¡¯s selling concessions. The old cash register clicks and clanks as she finishes the transaction. I turn the corner and see her handing a kid a plate of nachos. My mom is sitting next to the CD rack with the headphones on, she must be screening a song request to make sure it''s family friendly before we put it on the speakers. My dad is putting on his skates and the whistle, the limbo poles are propped up next to him. My six year old self comes bursting back in as my grandmother announces that we will be starting the limbo after the next song over the intercom. As my younger self puts her skates on I step out from behind the counter into the sitting area. There are some teenagers playing pool, some kids are playing the arcade games, and there''s a good crowd around the claw machine watching a dad try to win a dolphin for his little girl. It¡¯s a busy night, but they were all like this back then. I turn my eyes to the floor as the song comes to an end. The intercom crackles again and my grandmother announces the start of the limbo contest. Six year old me, now on roller-skates, comes flying out from behind the counter towards the floor to get in line. The limbo song starts to play and the line of skaters starts moving as one by one everyone goes under the highest bar. The night goes on like this for a while, everything exactly as I remember it being, the macarena, the hokey pokey, the couples skate, and races. Young me goes back and forth from skating to playing behind the counter to sitting with Papaw in his office. Eventually she falls asleep in his lap and I watch as he carries her, me, up the stairs. I¡¯m amazed to see him with the strength to walk up the stairs again, let alone the strength to carry someone else. He takes my six year old self into the apartment and lays her down on the couch, tucking her in with a blanket. I was a very sound sleeper back then, the train passes by again and young me doesn''t even stir. I watch him stare at her for a few moments, everyone always tells me how much he adored me, it¡¯s very evident from this perspective, I didn¡¯t notice it as much back then. He eventually heads back to his office, and I follow. I sit on the futon, just watching him. I wish he could see me sitting here, I wish we could talk, but if seeing him is all I can have, at least I have that. After a few minutes I feel something in my pocket, like a marble is overheating. I reach in and my hand clasps the necklace I found this afternoon. One of the pearls is hot to the touch, and getting hotter. Not knowing what else to do, I drop the necklace on the table to avoid scalding myself, and just as I do I hear a loud pop, like a popcorn kernel popping, and everything changes. I¡¯m left sitting on the downstairs couch in what is now the sitting room. The necklace is sitting in front of me where I just dropped it, but there is one less pearl on the chain. Magic, Madness, and Mundane If I hadn¡¯t been downstairs, if the necklace hadn¡¯t been sitting in front of me obviously missing a pearl, I would¡¯ve thought it was a dream. Maybe I¡¯m just crazy, but I don¡¯t think I could¡¯ve sleep-walked down those stairs unharmed. So what I¡¯m left with is the conclusion that I¡¯ve found a necklace with magic pearls. I¡¯m definitely crazy, but I¡¯m also not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Pearl number one took me back to the memory of a night when I was six years old, not my memory of the night, but the memory, like an echo left here by what this place used to be. That leaves two pearls remaining. I pick the necklace back up and return it to my pocket before heading back up the stairs to the apartment. Everything is exactly where I left it when I went to sleep, cardboard boxes broken down and stacked in the middle of the living room rug, blankets washed this morning folded up on the couch, through the windows I can see it¡¯s still dark out and I wonder how much time has passed. My phone should be in the guest room on the charger, but the hallway is exceedingly creepy at night and I haven¡¯t gotten around to changing the bulb yet, so I opt to check the digital clock in the kitchen. Just as I reach it it turns one am. I went to bed at eight, five hours seems about right for the amount of time passed in the memory, but it definitely wasn¡¯t one am when it ended, maybe more around ten pm. So the correct amount of time passes, but the memory isn¡¯t limited to the same time frame as the present. I take a seat at the kitchen table, procrastinating a little longer before having to walk back down the creepy hallway to my room. How did the pearl select the memory for me to visit? When I was drifting off I was thinking about the busy nights at the rink downstairs, did it just pick one of those because I was thinking about them? Can I be more specific? If I get five hours, and the time doesn¡¯t have to overlap with real time then it could be during the day right? I find myself nodding off slightly, my thoughts more and more frequently tying themselves into messy knots, it¡¯s then that I realize I haven¡¯t actually slept tonight. With a begrudging groan I pull myself up from the chair and make my way back towards the dark, creepy hallway that leads to my bed. Nana and Grandy had black cats that would hide in the shadows of this hall and pounce on the legs of anyone who walked by. They scratched up my legs and scared the daylights out of me more than enough times to give me an innate fear of this hall in the dark. The cats are long gone though, and I know that, but still I brace myself with a deep breath before hurrying down the hall on my toes. My arm still flies out in front of me, grabbing for the handle before my feet reach the doorway and I still throw myself into the room and slam the door shut behind me as if I am being hunted. On the other side of the door I know that I¡¯m being foolish, that I am alone here and nothing is going to reach out from the shadows and claw at me, but my heart still pounds the same. My alarm goes off at eight am, and for several groggy moments everything about last night is blurred. As I drag myself out of bed to get changed though, I see the necklace resting on the dresser. My foggy brain seeking distinction between dreams and truth compels me to pick it up for further examination, and I find two pearls on a silver chain. There were three when I found it right? I remember there being three. I stare at the necklace a moment longer, my tired eyes searching it for secrets and finding nothing but confusion. I grunt and discard the necklace back onto the vanity so I can get dressed, but when I go to the bathroom to get some shirts out of the dryer I catch a glimpse of my hair in the mirror and decide that I definitely need to shower first. As I turn the water on and lock the bathroom door the mirrors quickly fog up from the steam. The hot water is nice, the place may be old but the water heater works well. I let myself take my time scrubbing the shampoo into my hair and rinsing it all back out again, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere and letting my mind de-fog as I wake up. As my thoughts become clearer they keep drifting back to the necklace, and the memory from last night. Could it have been a dream after all? Did I really prove it wasn¡¯t one or did I just convince myself I wasn¡¯t dreaming while I was still dreaming? How many pearls did the necklace have before? I turn the water off and step out of the shower, pulling a towel off the rack to dry off with as I go rooting back through the dryer for a shirt. I find a suitable t-shirt and head back to my room to get some of the pants I put away yesterday. Once I¡¯m dressed I go back to the vanity for the necklace, two pearls on a silver chain just like this morning. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. There¡¯s no way to know for sure if there were ever really three, but I can take a picture now to prove there are two. I put the necklace on and pull the chain with my thumb so it''s closer to the camera as I take the picture. Perfect, there are two pearls on the chain, the picture clearly shows it. Now if the same thing happens tonight, tomorrow I will know for sure that it¡¯s real. I set to work for the rest of the day, eating a quick breakfast before putting away yesterday''s laundry and starting a load of towels and sheets. Then I head downstairs to start cleaning up the sitting room, dust everything, vacuum all the cat hair off the carpet and couch, vacuum the stairs. I finish cleaning everything I can reach sometime around lunch. I don¡¯t really feel like making anything, and all I have right now are ingredients. I definitely need to get some microwaveable meals when I go to the grocery store. In the meantime, I grab my car keys and decide to check and see if the glass kitchen burger joint down the road is still in business. The gravel rumbles under my car all the way out of the driveway. I look both ways, more for animals than cars on this road at this time of day, then take a left and head towards the old strip mall next to the motel. Most of the old storefronts have been empty for years, all that¡¯s left is the donut shop on the end and the glass kitchen in the parking lot. I pull up to the window of the glass kitchen and order a burger and some fries, putting the bag in my passenger seat before turning around and heading back. When I get back to the apartment I hesitate, not sure if I should eat at the breakfast nook in the kitchen or the dining room table. I settle for the coffee table in the living room and put on family feud while I eat. The burger is as good as I remember, I can see how that old place stayed in business all these years. I wipe the burger grease off my hands and head to the kitchen for a drink. There should still be some energy drinks and sodas in the fridge, sure enough there''s about a box of XS energy burn left, strawberry kiwi flavor, just for me. I take one of the tiny cans and crack open the green tab as I head back to my food. I finish up my burger and most of the fries and take in another episode of family feud before getting back to it. Time to make a shopping list. I go back through the pantry, fridge, and freezer, typing things into my phone as I think of what I¡¯m missing. I search Google Maps for the nearest grocery store that¡¯s still open, it looks like it¡¯s the United Supermarket in downtown Iowa Park. I grab my keys back off the coffee table and head back out. By the time I get home I¡¯m ready for dinner. I unload all the groceries, regretting my life choices as I haul them all up the stairs, and start prepping some potatoes for baking. I¡¯ll have one for dinner tonight and keep the rest in the fridge to eat throughout the week. The oven presents a challenge, it¡¯s older than any oven I¡¯ve ever used before and it takes some googling and investigating to figure out how to make it do what I want. After about an hour and a half I remove the successfully baked potatoes from the oven, manage to figure out how to turn the oven back off, and prepare one of the potaotes for dinner so I can eat while I let the rest cool. I opt to eat at the breakfast nook in the kitchen this time, my decision heavily influenced by my desire to walk as little as necessary for the rest of the day. While I eat I gaze out the window over the huge gravel parking lot that is now my driveway, my eyes eventually sliding over to the remnants of the swimming pool. There¡¯s practically a forest growing out of the concrete bottom, everything over there has decayed after years of neglect and weather. My mind drifts back to how it used to be, a place full of people smiling and laughing and having a good time, there was so much life and joy at the pool. I sigh softly at the memories of splashing sound with my friends, absentmindedly beginning to fiddle with my jewlery until my fingers run over one of the pearls. I snap back to the present, remembering last night and the bizarre magic I seem to have discovered. If last night was real, I visited the skating rink during its prime, so tonight I¡¯ll try to visit the pool. Ruins After dinner I take another shower, washing off all the dirt and sweat from cleaning all day, and get changed into some proper pajamas before bed. As I towel dry my hair I debate wearing the necklace to bed, though if my memory is true I don¡¯t like the idea of one of the pearls scalding me when it¡¯s time to leave the memory. I end up tucking it into my pocket again for the night. It¡¯s harder to fall asleep this time. I¡¯m not as exhausted, and I¡¯m trying my best to focus my thoughts on a specific memory to try and visit. I lay awake and restless for hours. I groan in frustration as I hear the train pass by, I should be asleep by now. A few more hours pass and I find myself unable to maintain focus and silence my mind enough to sleep simultaneously. Maybe I just need a little inspiration. I sit up and slide to the edge of the bed, grabbing some socks off the floor nearby and yanking them up my legs before standing to search for my boots. Once I¡¯ve found them and my jacket I grab my keys and leave the apartment, locking it behind me. I quickly but carefully descend the stairs and spend more than a few moments searching the office before finally finding the giant metal flashlight I need. I could always use the light from my phone, but this thing has some serious weight to it and if I¡¯m going to be outside alone at night I would like to have something to swing with if I need to. I click the old flashlight on and thank god that it still seems to work. Then with some effort I twist the deadbolt open and unlock the front door pushing hard against it until it swings open with a creak. I step out into the night, stopping to shove the door back into place and lock it behind me, then stare out into the darkness towards the old pool. This was a terrible idea and I already regret it, but I¡¯ve also already put a lot of effort into it and I would feel very stupid if I stopped now. I begin walking along the fence line until it curves away towards the old trailer house next door, continuing forward, the gravel shifting softly under my feet. I reach the fence around what used to be a playground for my brother and I. I pull the rusty metal latch up and push open the gate, stepping into the now empty area, stopping briefly to examine the broken concrete remnants of where my brother''s basketball hoop once was. I continue forward and to my left, towards the decrepit pool house. The wood is too rotten for me to feel safe going in, so instead I pass by it and head towards the edge of the pool. I walk up next to what remains of the old water slide, peering over the edge of the concrete down to the miniature forest below. You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. This place, once alive with laughter and joy, had died long ago, and nature was reclaiming the remains. Trees sprout through the cracking concrete bottom and now reach up higher than the decaying pool house, roadrunners nest in the shrubbery that grows denser each year, a small, dirty pond of rainwater pools at the deepest end and occasionally there you can find the snapping turtles that once lived in the creek nearby. I shine the flashlight down into the trees and bushes and see no immediate response. Slowly, I walk around to my left towards the shallowest area, the concrete slope rising steadily at an angle until it meets the pool deck seamlessly. This is the area I remember most. I was still fairly young when we lost the pool, and while I had a few years of diving boards and swimming in the deep end the majority of my time at this pool was spent in the ankle deep water splashing around. I take in a deep breath of the late night air, tears are pricking at the corners of my eyes and the deep breath becomes a shaky sigh. I can feel the exhaustion sinking in, I know I should¡¯ve been asleep hours ago but I need this to work. Warm tears streak silently down my cheeks as I continue to stare at this graveyard of my childhood summers. Eventually the grief becomes too much and the tears cease their silence, falling instead with hiccuping sobs as I allow myself to slowly fall to my knees on the concrete. I pull my jacket tighter around me for comfort and make conscious effort to slow my breathing. I take a deep gasping breath, and then another, and one more as if I had been drowning and had finally reached safety. The wet streaks on my face have turned cold as the breeze blows my hair gently into them causing strands to stick to my cheeks. I shouldn¡¯t sleep here, it would be dangerous and uncomfortable, but I¡¯m so tired. Fear defeats exhaustion in the end, and I pull myself to my feet, leaving through the turnstile entrance and trudging back to the rink on the other side of the gravel parking lot. I get the door unlocked and barely manage to yank it open without falling backwards. It takes some effort to pull it all the way closed behind me and I push and pull on it several times to make sure it is actually locked before heading back up the stairs. The upstairs door doesn¡¯t give me nearly as much trouble, easily unlocking to allow me inside and locking behind me without any struggle. I¡¯m once again faced with the ominously dark hallway that I know will creak under my feet at just the wrong moment to frighten me. I groan and lean back against the door, tempted to fall asleep right here instead but knowing I¡¯ll hate myself in the morning if I do. I finally settle for sleeping on the couch, laying out the recliner and pulling a blanket over myself before finally drifting off to sleep. A Day in the Sun I wake up to the sun in my eyes. From the brightness of the room it seems to be mid-afternoon. The couch feels different than it did when I fell asleep. I put my hands down beside my hips to adjust and find that the smooth, soft upholstery is gone, instead my hands land on a coarse, rigid fabric. I remember this couch. I stand, my vision coming into focus as I examine the rest of the room. A stack of VHS tapes sit next to an old tv, a rocking horse sits behind the loveseat, and over the fireplace are pictures of my family instead of a memorial to my grandfather. I can hear the faint sound of music and a crowd coming from outside, so I slide on some nearby sandals and head downstairs. I pass through my grandfather''s office, back to how it always was when I was young, and head outside. The gravel parking lot is packed with cars, and crowds of people are lined up, filing into the pool through the turnstile. I catch sight of my old playground behind the pool house and on it I see my childhood self and her best friend playing on the swings. I head towards the gate leading to the playground, it¡¯ll be faster to get in through there. The gate squeaks as I push it open, just like it always did, but with all the commotion no one really notices. I make sure to close and latch the gate behind me. I don¡¯t know if I am able to manipulate this echo of days past by interacting with objects but I don¡¯t want to take a chance on corrupting the memory. I take a moment to watch my younger self, piloting herself and her friend through whatever fantasy scenario she¡¯s dreamed up for the day. I hear her yelling something about a spaceship and urging her friend to go faster as they frantically lean forward and back to propel the two-person swing. Soon she announces that they have arrived, and the two of them run with urgency up the ladder to the platform with a slide attached, both of them going down then circling around to the ladder again and again before hopping back on the ¡°spaceship¡± for takeoff. There is a warmth that swells inside as I see how loud and wild I used to be when I played. I turn away and head towards the pool itself. The memory overwhelms my senses as I pass under the awning into the pool area. The music playing over the loudspeaker is barely audible over all the voices, laughing and talking and squealing and yelling all meshing into a dull roar, the air smells like sunblock and chlorine and I breathe deeper trying to take in the scent. A group of teenagers lines up at the concessions counter, and my grandfather is there, leaning on the counter awaiting their decision. A younger version of my father is at the other counter, managing the near-constant flow of people coming in through the turnstile. He is almost unfamiliar to me, a much smaller frame than he has now, and with a layer of dark hair covering the bald head I am familiar with. My mother comes out of the pool house behind me and goes to fetch my younger self and her friend for their swimming lesson. Her hair is blonder, and less curly than it is in the present. I enter through the door as she leaves. My grandfather goes into the back to grab some nachos for the teenagers who have finally made their decision, then takes over for my dad at the entrance so my dad can in turn relieve the lifeguard on duty. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. I witness firsthand the generosity my grandfather was so famous for, watching him turn no one away regardless of whether or not they could afford entry. Taking down names of ¡°volunteers¡± to call on for help if needed then letting everyone inside to play and cool off in the water. I see him joke around with our regulars, treating them as family, and almost everyone is a regular to him. I see him watch my lessons from the counter with this look of adoration on his face. I watch him look so healthy, going to refill the ice chest himself and having no struggle with the weight of the bag. Tears well in my eyes and I find myself wishing I had gotten to see him like this, really see him, wishing I hadn¡¯t been so young, or that I would¡¯ve paid more attention. I decided to go out to the pool deck and sit at one of the benches to watch the rest of the memory play out. The tiny version of myself barely pays attention to her grandmother''s lesson, choosing instead to splash her friend in the face whenever he attempts to blow bubbles and test her ability to hold her breath. Eventually the lesson ends, and my mother comes to the pool side to collect me and take me to the ankle deep water to play. I watch her and her friend sit and chat with their feet in the water while my friend and I splash around, running over occasionally to sit on their legs and be lifted into the air giggling and screaming until we are lowered back into the pool. All of these days sort of blend together in my mind. I was so young, every sunny day that smelled like sunscreen and chlorine has just become a blended, faded, frankenstein of a memory. There were so many of them. Every day of every summer of my childhood, it¡¯s strange to be suddenly immersed in an individual one. It¡¯s just how I remember them all though, the water, the sun, the crowds, everything is exactly how it was every day back then. I close my eyes for a moment, taking in a deep breath to smell my childhood again, and then I feel it. The necklace burning a hole in my pocket. I pull it out by the chain and drop it on the table and the same loud popping noise fills my ears as everything fades away. I¡¯m left sitting on broken concrete under the sky as the sun rises in front of me. The necklace sits on the ground in front of me with one pearl remaining. Memories I sit in the loud silence of the morning and watch the sunrise over the trees and brush, broken concrete and rotten wood. I feel myself crying again, but I make no sound, just letting the tears fall as the animals and insects wake up all around me. Eventually I get up. I collect the necklace from the ground and I carry myself back inside. I make it as far as the couch in what used to be his office. Collapsing from exhaustion both physical and emotional I drop the necklace on the coffee table and sob myself to sleep. I wake up what must¡¯ve been a few hours later and remain there on the couch. Still crying, but back to a silent fall of tears. The lump in my throat is so swollen and heavy it feels like I could choke on it. My hair is tangled and oily against my face, and my face is a damp mess of sweat and tears. The hood of my jacket is bunched up uncomfortably against my neck, and the teeth of the zipper are cold where they dig into my skin. One of my arms has fallen asleep under me, and my legs are screaming to be stretched. Even so, I continue to lay there, unmoving, until I fall asleep again. The second time I wake up I cannot stand to stay there in such discomfort. I groan with the effort it takes me to sit up, then to stand, and I drag myself up the stairs, down the hall into the bathroom. I turn on the hot water for a shower and let the room steam up around me. When I finally step into the water it feels like heaven, my muscles relax, the sticky layer of sweat rinses away, the oily feeling of my hair removed from my skin. I still feel like I can barely manage to stand, so I sit under the water to wash and condition my hair. If this place still had a bath tub I would take a soak, but this was the best I could do. I sit under the water until it finally starts to cool down, then turn it off and wrap myself in a towel to preserve the warmth as I sit on the bathmat with my knees under my arms and my back resting against the shower door. My mind wanders back to the final pearl, waiting for me downstairs. Was this even worth it? It seems that visiting the past like this is only leaving me miserable when I have to lose these places again. What would I even use the last pearl for? I¡¯ve already visited the rink and the pool once each, what did that leave? The steam has all but dissipated and I¡¯m getting cold, so I grab another towel for my hair and go to the guest room to hurriedly dry off and find something to wear. Sweatpants and a t-shirt yanked on to my still slightly damp skin, I head into the kitchen in search of breakfast. I feel like I could eat an entire continental breakfast buffet. I settle for microwaved waffles with lots of butter and syrup. I sit with my plate in the breakfast nook for much longer than it takes me to finish my food. As I delay getting up to wash my plate I stare out over the pool just as I did yesterday morning. I find my mind wandering back again to the necklace, the pearls. So many questions that I¡¯m sure will never be answered. Questions I wouldn¡¯t even be able to ask anyone without being diagnosed with something. I suppose it¡¯s still possible that all of this is some sort of mental break, it does seem more plausible than magic. Maybe returning here, to live in the graveyard of my childhood, wasn''t the soundest of decisions. I let out a concerned humm for my sanity, then went to rinse my plate in the sink. This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. Instead of being productive, I spend the afternoon digging through all the photo albums I can find. The pictures span back several lifetimes, the oldest ones showing my grandmother''s parents, back when my grandmother was a small child sitting in her fathers lap. The most recent ones are of my generation, pictures of my teenage years and my brother''s bootcamp graduation. Around that time my grandmother found a digital method of sorting and storing photos that she liked, so the decade and change between then and now isn¡¯t represented in these dusty old books. I trace through the pictures of my fathers childhood, speed skating, football, a mullet AND a perm. It doesn¡¯t take long before I reach my brother''s childhood. Not a lot of baby pictures, but from the age of five or six onwards there are tons. Birthdays, sports, family photos, and then I show up. The first picture I find of myself is my brother holding me, then my aunt, then the old family portrait that''s framed somewhere around here. It takes a couple of pages for baby me to lose the black curly hair I was born with and for the blonde to grow in. My first time on roller skates, my dad holding my brother and I on his shoulders in the pool, so many birthday parties, I sneeze as the dust from the attic finally accumulates in my nostrils. With that I relocate to the dining room table. I resume flipping through the pictures of my childhood, my blonde hair darkens to brown, I start kindergarten, my family visits my great aunt in California. My grandfather looks so healthy in all of these, until I reach somewhere around my seventh or eighth birthday. The difference is subtle at first, he loses weight, he was already a very lean man so the loss is a bit startling. Then the oxygen tanks start appearing, he isn¡¯t always hooked up to them at first, they¡¯re just waiting there in the background, and soon he¡¯s attached to one in every picture, never standing anymore, becoming paler, at this point there are no more pictures of him downstairs, he stopped being able to get down them. I reach the pictures of his eighty-ninth birthday. All of us are there, all smiling, with a cake, and he¡¯s smiling but he looks so tired. I know this is the last picture we have of him. All of us huddled up around his chair laughing as my dad tries to stick frosting in my grandfathers mouth. I stay there for a while, on that page, not ready to move on to his funeral. This was the very last time I saw him alive. I didn¡¯t make it in time, the night that he passed. I had been at the theater, we finished up our evening performance and we got the call as dad was driving me home. We stopped to pick up my mother. She took such a long time finding her purse, I wanted to yell at her, ¡®you don¡¯t need your purse, why would you need your purse¡¯, but I couldn¡¯t say anything, and I couldn¡¯t find her purse. We pulled up in the driveway and I was out of the car before it had fully stopped, yanking open the old stubborn door and sprinting up the stairs, throwing open the door to see my grandmother leaving their bedroom in tears. A near miss. I lean back in my chair to keep the tears off the pages. There¡¯s plastic to protect the pictures but no reason to risk it. I don¡¯t think this place is good for me. I think about the necklace downstairs. One pearl left, I guess I figured out how to use it. I stand to go fetch it from the coffee table downstairs, opting to leave the photo albums out mostly because I don¡¯t feel like putting them away. Back down the stairs, grabbing the necklace and slipping it in my pocket and my phone begins to ring up on the dining room table. Shit. I rush back up the stairs and manage to just miss the call. It was my grandmother''s number; I wait to see if she calls again but instead, I get a text a few seconds later. A picture of the two of them in the Bahamas, along with a sweet and simple message about missing me and remembering when they took me there after graduation. I send a heart in reply, not really knowing what else to say, then put my phone in the pocket opposite the necklace and make my way towards my bed, it¡¯s time for my final visit. Final Visit When I open my eyes I can hear her. My grandmother, down the hall. She¡¯s on the phone, she''s crying, I hear her say my fathers name. I walk quietly out of the guest room and towards the master. ¡°I think he¡¯s nearing the end, I¡¯m calling hospice when I hang up.¡± This is it, the night he died. I enter the room as she leaves it and there he is. Laying in bed motionless, more sickly green than deep tan he once was, hooked up to an oxygen tank and taking slow, raspy breaths. I stop breathing. I walk slowly to his bedside and sit down on the floor next to him. I missed him the first time, I¡¯ll be with him tonight even if it¡¯s just in an echo. I place my hand on his, just to see if I can feel it. He¡¯s cold to the touch but I can touch him. ¡°Missy¡­Prissy..¡± It¡¯s almost a whisper but he¡¯s talking, I turn to look and see him staring back at me. But he can¡¯t be staring at me, I wasn¡¯t here. I turn to look behind me but there isn¡¯t anyone there. His hand twitches a little in mine and I turn back to him. He is still staring. ¡°Papaw?¡± My voice is breaking as it struggles to get past the lump in my throat. He smiles. He is looking at me, hearing me, how? ¡°You¡¯re so big¡± his voice is so weak, but he''s smiling as he speaks to me. ¡°I¡¯m all grown up¡± I have no way to explain to him why, I was thirteen the last time he saw me, how could I possibly explain my adulthood. ¡°Little Missy Prissy Busy-body.¡± It¡¯s slow, but he gets all the words out, my nickname. I laugh and tears start to fall. ¡°What¡¯re you doin here?¡± He asks, I can tell he¡¯s getting a bit winded from all the talking. I take a minute to think of an answer. ¡°I came to see you, I wanted to see you again.¡± There¡¯s a long silence, no sound but his struggling breaths. This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. ¡°I¡¯m goin.¡± So he knows. ¡°Yeah¡± He nods weakly in acknowledgment. I¡¯m crying hard, trying to think of what to say. I didn¡¯t expect to be able to talk to him here. ¡°I love you so much, I just wanted to tell you that,¡± I can feel myself breaking down worse as the words come pouring out, so many years of thinking about all the things I wish I had said and now I can¡¯t think of them, I finally get a second last chance to say it all and it¡¯s gone. I feel his thumb stroking my hand, gentle and slow. It doesn¡¯t matter, the words never mattered with him. I¡¯m flooded with memories of my time with him, how little he ever spoke and how loved I always felt. He already knew. Everything I thought I needed to say he could feel. I continued to cry, but the sobs softened, my crying became gentle again and I just sat there with him, hand in hand. I sat with him and watched as his struggling breaths finally stopped. I remain there holding his hand as my grandmother turns the corner back into the room, I hear her gasp and start to sob as she notices that he¡¯s gone and I stand, and move to the other side of the room to watch. The rest of the night goes exactly how I remember. I¡¯m the next to arrive, out of breath from running up the stairs. I break down at his bedside and beg him to come back and let me say goodbye. I sit there and sob, leaving only when I hear my parents make it to the door. My mother places her hand on my fathers shoulder as their tears begin. She stays out in the hall as he takes his moment with his father. The adults stand in the hall just outside, speaking in hushed tones when my brother arrives. He bursts in much like I did, already sobbing by the time his knees hit the floor, begging for more time for several minutes before standing, only to collapse again into the arms of our father for comfort. After he leaves the bedroom I follow, he was the last person to enter the bedroom that night. As I enter the living room I see myself, sitting in my grandfather''s chair where I spent the rest of the night. My face is completely blank, my eyes fixed forward with nothing behind them. Occasionally I look over at the small side table beside me, where all his empty sprite cans filled with chewed up cigars still sit, only to face forward again seconds later with the same dead-eyed stare. I go and sit next to myself in my grandmother''s seat, she won''t be using it tonight. I watch as the visitors arrive, one at a time, most leaving before the next one arrives. They go straight to my father or grandmother, they recite the usual platitudes, so sorry for your loss, he is in a better place, he¡¯s not in pain anymore. Why we force the grieving to pretend these are a comfort I have never understood. Only one of them addresses me as she sits silently off to the side, a man from church with children my age. He meets her gaze and gives her a sympathetic smile. ¡°He was a good man.¡± That''s all he says. He¡¯s right, my grandfather was a good man. He had his faults as all men do, but he was a good man. She doesn''t acknowledge his statement or his smile, but he doesn¡¯t seem to expect her to. As soon as his statement is finished, he turns away from her and addresses the adults. She sits there alone for the rest of the night, silent, still. I hear the train go by, that''s when I feel the final pearl heating up to tell me it¡¯s time. I go back into his room and take one last look. I take his hand one last time as I remove the necklace from my pocket. I drop it onto the floor and with a pop, I¡¯m alone in the master bedroom. The End I sit there for a while, on my knees between the bed and the gun cabinet in the mostly-empty room. I hadn¡¯t come in here yet since moving in, there was still dust settled in on the empty furniture. The necklace was nothing but a silver chain now, no pearls remaining, I return it to my pocket anyway, not wanting to leave it on the floor. It¡¯s dark out, that''s about what I expected considering the time I went to sleep, five hours passed five pm. Since I slept most of the morning I don¡¯t feel especially tired, at least not physically. However, skipping breakfast and dinner has made me a bit hungry. Eventually I get up off my knees and head to the kitchen, closing the door behind me and sealing off the room once more. I pile some meat cheese and crackers onto a plate and once again question where to eat. I¡¯m tired of the view from the kitchen, and the dining room table is covered in photo albums, so living room it is. I sit where my grandfathers chair used to be, setting my plate on the side table as I wrap myself up in a blanket and adjust the recliner. Once I¡¯m settled in I start channel flipping, not much on but I find some NCIS rerun and leave it at that. It isn¡¯t as if I¡¯m paying much attention anyways. Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. Why did I come here? I look around the room, over the past few days I¡¯ve exhausted myself emotionally, revisiting the past every night. As many fond memories as this place holds, I can never just be happy when I¡¯m here, there¡¯s always a sadness lurking in the background. I check my phone, somewhere near ten-thirty pm now, everyone I could call will be asleep. Maybe that¡¯s better, I don¡¯t really know what I would say to anyone, I¡¯m just tired of being alone in this place. I finish up my snack plate and drift in and out of consciousness until the next morning. A few days later and I¡¯ve finished packing up everything I had unpacked. The U-Haul is outside and I¡¯m spending my morning dragging boxes down the stairs preparing to leave town. Whatever happened here, supernatural experience or mental breakdown, maybe I¡¯ll never know for sure, but what I am sure of is that this place has nothing left for me. There''s a peaceful contentment welling up inside as I say my goodbyes to this place, and as I lock the doors and turn off all of the lights, I think I finally got the closure I needed.