The road narrowed into cracked stones and overgrown weeds.
The map Calen sometimes carried — a wrinkled, half-torn scrap of paper — didn't even list this place.
It was the kind of town that time had forgotten.
Or maybe…
the kind that had quietly chosen to forget itself.
The houses stood sagging and empty, windows broken, gardens swallowed by wild grass.
Calen walked slowly through the main street, the lantern bobbing at his side.
Its light was hardly needed in the late afternoon glow,
but he carried it anyway —
out of habit,
out of promise,
out of hope.
At the end of the lane stood one house still clinging stubbornly to life.
The paint was peeling.
The porch sagged.
The curtains hung limp and faded.
But the lights were on.
Calen climbed the steps carefully, his boots making the old wood groan.
He raised his hand to knock —
but the door swung open before he touched it.
An old woman stood there.
Her frame was small but sturdy, her hair pinned up in a messy bun, silver strands catching the sunlight.
Deep lines carved her face — the kind born not just from age, but from years of stubborn living.
She peered at him with sharp gray eyes.
Old Woman:
"Well?
You gonna stand there gaping, or you coming in?"
Calen blinked, then smiled faintly.
Calen:
"Just passing through."
Old Woman:
(snorting)
"That's what they all say."
She turned and shuffled inside, leaving the door wide open behind her.
An invitation —
or a challenge.
Calen hesitated for only a moment.
Then he stepped inside.
The lantern's light mingled with the soft golden haze pouring through the dusty windows.
The house smelled of old books, lavender, and something sweet baking in a forgotten oven.
Every surface was crowded with memories —
photographs in crooked frames,
porcelain figurines gathering dust,
handmade quilts draped over battered furniture.
It wasn't neat.
It wasn't clean.
But it was alive in a way empty houses never were.
The old woman shuffled into the kitchen, waving a hand over her shoulder.
Old Woman:
"Sit.
You look like you've been walking since Moses was a boy."
Calen sat carefully on a sagging couch, setting the lantern down at his feet.
Old Woman:
(calling from the kitchen)
"Name's Winslow.
Edith Winslow.
But if you call me 'Miss' anything, I'll whack you with a spoon."
Calen:
(smiling)
"Calen.
Just Calen."
She bustled back into the room with two chipped mugs of tea balanced precariously in her hands.
She set one in front of him and plopped down into an armchair with a creak and a sigh.
For a moment, they simply sat, sipping tea as the old house breathed around them.
Then, with no warning, she spoke.
Edith:
"You looking for a place to stay, boy?"
Calen:
"No.
Just passing through."
Edith:
"Good.
Town's got enough ghosts."
She said it lightly, almost like a joke.
But there was a weight behind her words.
A weight Calen recognized.
Calen rested his mug on the low coffee table and leaned back slightly.
He could feel the old house listening, like it, too, was waiting for something to be said.
Calen:
(gently)
"You've been here a long time."
Edith snorted into her tea.
Edith:
"Long enough to see the paint peel five times and the garden win the war."
She chuckled, but it was a tired sound.
Not bitter exactly.
Just… worn.
Calen:
"Why stay?
Everyone else seems to have gone."
The old woman's eyes sharpened, studying him like a hawk sizing up a mouse.
For a moment, Calen thought she wouldn't answer.
Then she set her cup down with a soft clink.
Edith:
(quietly)
"Because someone has to remember."
Calen tilted his head.
Calen:
"Remember what?"
She waved her hand vaguely around the room.
Edith:
"Everything.
Birthdays.
Storms.
First steps taken across that cracked kitchen floor.
Arguments shouted through these thin walls."
Her voice caught slightly.
Edith:
"The way the front door used to slam when my Charlie came home from the mill.
The way the kettle always whistled too soon, like it was eager to talk."
She smiled, soft and sad.
Edith:
"If I leave…
who remembers any of it?"
The question hovered between them.
Not really seeking an answer.
Just needing to be heard.
Calen leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
Calen:
"Do you think memories live only where they happened?"
Edith's sharp gaze softened.
Edith:
"Feels like they do."
Calen:
"Maybe they live where you carry them, too."
She huffed, unimpressed.
Edith:
"Easy words for a young boy with no gray in his hair."
Calen smiled faintly.
Calen:
"Maybe.
But…
even when the walls fall down, the love that built them doesn't."
Edith fell quiet.
The ticking of an old clock filled the silence.
She reached for a worn photo album lying on the table beside her.
She flipped it open, the pages crackling like dry leaves.
Photographs filled the pages — black-and-white, faded color, smiles trapped in time.
She tapped one photo — a young woman in a wedding dress, laughing up at a tall, smiling man.
Edith:
(soft)
"Charlie and me.
Fifty years ago."
Calen leaned closer.
Calen:
"You look…
happy."
Edith smiled, tears glinting in her sharp eyes.
Edith:
"We were.
God help us, we really were."
She turned another page —
kids holding sparklers,
a Christmas tree sagging under too many ornaments,
a baby with cake smeared all over his face.
Life.
Real and messy and beautiful.
Edith's hand lingered on a photo of a little girl holding a cat, her face beaming with pure, unfiltered joy.
Edith:
(whispering)
"This house heard their first words.
Their first heartbreaks.
Their first dreams."
She closed the album carefully, her hands trembling slightly.
Edith:
(quietly)
"If I leave…
if I sell this place to some developer who'll bulldoze it into the dirt…
does all of that get erased?"
Calen reached for the lantern at his feet, lifting it into his lap.
The flame inside flickered, casting their faces in soft, stubborn light.
Calen:
(soft)
"Only if you let it."
Edith looked at him sharply.
Edith:
(challenging)
"You think memories can survive without a home?"
Calen:
(quiet)
"I think memories survive inside the people who are willing to carry them."
He touched the side of the lantern lightly.
Calen:
"Even small lights can carry whole worlds inside."