The dog refused to cross the threshold, no matter how hard she pulled on the leash. It was raining lightly, just enough to darken the wood of the porch and make everything smell like wet earth. Lucy crouched beside him. “It’s okay,” she murmured. The front door stood open. Inside, the house was dim but familiar. Her mother’s house. The house she had sworn she would never return to. After the funeral, there were practical matters. Papers to sign. Closets to empty. Photographs to decide the fate of. She hadn’t expected it to feel like this. The dog — her mother’s dog now, technically — leaned back against her legs instead of stepping forward. Lucy swallowed. Growing up, she had always imagined one big conversation. The one where everything would be said plainly. Apologies made. Forgiveness offered. But cancer had its own timeline. The house creaked softly in the wind. Lucy stepped inside alone, leaving the dog on the porch. The living room looked smaller than she remembered. The couch sagged slightly. A knitting project still rested on the armrest. There were so many things they never said. She moved through the rooms methodically, as if organizing objects could somehow reorganize memory. When she came back outside, the dog looked up at her with tired eyes. She knelt and wrapped her arms around him. “We’re fine,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure who she was convincing. She locked the door behind her. Only later did she realize that nothing had actually been resolved.