The dog refused to cross the threshold, no matter how hard she pulled on the leash. “Come on, Milo,” Hannah whispered, trying to keep her voice calm. The realtor stood behind her with a polite, fading smile, pretending not to notice. The house was perfect on paper. Recently renovated. Good neighborhood. Walking distance to the elementary school she kept telling herself she might need someday. Milo dug his paws into the welcome mat. Hannah sighed and stepped inside without him. The air smelled faintly of fresh paint and something older underneath; something like dust sealed behind walls. She didn’t believe in signs. She believed in budgets, inspections, and square footage. Still, when Milo let out a low whine, it echoed down the hallway in a way that made her stomach tighten. She walked into the living room. Afternoon light spilled across hardwood floors. The place was bright, almost aggressively cheerful. “You’ll get used to it,” she called back to the dog. Or maybe she was talking to herself. After the divorce, she had promised she wouldn’t let fear dictate her choices anymore. She would move forward. She would build something new. She would not look back. But in the kitchen, standing where someone else had once stood, she felt a strange heaviness settle over her. The realtor chatted about granite countertops. Hannah turned and finally stepped back outside. Milo immediately relaxed, tail giving a cautious wag. “It’s fine,” she told the realtor, though her voice sounded thin. “We’ll think about it.” That night, she told her friends she was being practical. That the location wasn’t ideal. That the price was slightly too high. She told herself it was just a nervous dog. Only later did she realize that nothing had actually been resolved.