The dog refused to cross the threshold, no matter how hard she pulled on the leash. “It’s fine,” Laura muttered, though she wasn’t sure whether she meant the dog or herself. The open house sign was still planted crookedly in the yard. She had almost turned the car around twice on the way here. The place wasn’t hers anymore. It hadn’t been for months. But curiosity is powerful. She stepped inside. The furniture was gone. The walls had been repainted a neutral gray. Even the creaky step in the hallway had been fixed. The dog finally followed her in, sniffing cautiously. Laura walked into what used to be the kitchen and tried to imagine it without the arguments. Without the late-night silences. Without the slow unraveling. The new owners had left brochures on the counter. Plans for renovations. A bigger island. A breakfast nook. She nodded to herself, as if approving. When she signed the divorce papers, she had told everyone she felt relieved. Free. Ready. And in some ways, she did. But standing in the echo of a life she once built, she realized relief isn’t the same thing as healing. The realtor asked if she had any questions. “No,” Laura said quickly. Outside, the dog shook off as if shedding invisible water. Laura clipped the leash back on and walked to her car. She told herself visiting had given her closure. Only later did she realize that nothing had actually been resolved.