Oli Isn't.

It was day three. Four rolls of packing tape. Twenty boxes and countless trips to the dump. It was three days of hauling and he was tired of cardboard and dust.

Oliver had packed up several boxes for donation: dishes, knick knacks, old cook books and outdated encyclopedias no one cracked open since 1989.

He dragged an orange and green striped couch and matching arm chair out to the lawn and put a free sign on it. The furniture his mother argued over but, lost to his father's wallet. The chair still smelled of his fathers' aftershave and sweat.

He couldn't bring himself to slap a price on it. The town was so small and poor now he was sure someone would jump at the chance before the day was out.

He was an only child and he hadn't lived in his home town since he moved out at eighteen.

After his mother died he visited less and less. His father made no effort for conversation. It always had to be surface level. If you needed to fill the silence during a meal you could always get him riled up about the local supermarket going out of business.

He never stopped being upset about that, even decades later.

If there was a heaven, Oliver figured, his father was parked in his recliner, bending some poor soul’s ear about the good old days. And if there was a hell, it was the same scene—only the poor bastard couldn’t leave.

Oliver paused, sweat sticking his white T-shirt to his back. He bent over, palms on his knees, catching his breath. He wasn’t twenty anymore, though he still hauled boxes like a man who was. Tall, rail-thin, stronger than he looked—that much hadn’t changed.

He checked his phone—no calls, no messages. His wife had offered to help, but he’d told her to leave it be. After too many “I’m fine's" and one-word answers, she’d stopped checking in.

Oliver trudged up the stairs. The brown carpet wheezed dust with every step. He’d just reached the landing when the kitchen phone shrilled below.

“Of course,” he muttered, turning back. Probably a telemarketer. But with his father’s devotion to that clunky landline, it might be some old friend calling with condolences.

Yesterday a receptionist had phoned, cheerful as ever, to confirm an appointment. When Oliver explained his father had died, she offered condolences—then asked about the cancellation fee.

The phone rang again. Oliver snatched it up, if only to silence the shrill thing.

“Hello?”

Static. A crackle. Then nothing.

He sighed. “Hello?”

A voice flickered through, faint and muffled, like it was trapped under water. Oliver hung up. He didn’t have time for bad connections.

Back upstairs, he headed straight for his parents’ room. He’d saved the bedrooms for last, knowing they’d be the hardest.

The smell hit first—stale carpet and dust, like no one had vacuumed in a decade. He yanked the curtains open. Light spilled across the curling wallpaper and the water stain in the corner, spreading like rot.

Oliver dragged a hand through his hair. Another thing his father never dealt with. Another problem left behind. The whole damn house was falling apart.

He started with the closet. On the right hung his mother’s clothes—still there, years after she died. His father had sworn he’d dealt with them, but Oliver wasn’t surprised. Laziness or sentiment, he’d never know.

On the left, his father’s things sagged from wire hangers: T-shirts, worn-out pants. He could almost hear the rant starting up in his head.

“Those pants are fine. Perfectly good. God damn idiots today throw out clothes over a stain.”

Oliver’s jaw clenched. Same rant, same tone, still echoing even now.

"Yeah, yeah." He muttered.

In the back, the suits. Three of them, all dated, though his father had called them “classics.”

Oliver pulled out the green one. Held it up.

Pickle suit.

He froze. The words hadn’t come from him. They had been said. Whispered, small and close, as if from a corner of the room.

The suit slipped from his hands. His heart slammed against his ribs. He spun around, the empty bedroom gaping back at him. Hallway silent. Nothing. But he was sure—so sure—he’d heard a voice.

He lingered in the hall, holding his breath, listening for footsteps. Kids screwing around, maybe? The floorboards creaked under him, but nothing else stirred. He turned back toward the master bedroom—

A crash.

His childhood room.

Oliver flung the door open. The air inside was thick with dust, motes swirling in the slanted light. Nothing moved. At first.

Then he saw it: the closet door hanging crooked, the top shelf collapsed in on itself. Old boxes spilled across the carpet, their lids blown open like startled mouths.

He knelt down to sort through the mess, hands still shaking from earlier. A small box had spilled birthday cards across the carpet, and sitting on top was a Polaroid. His tenth birthday—he and his mother at the kitchen table, grinning through smears of frosting, each with a dab of icing on their nose. Her arm was stretched out, holding the camera, catching them mid-laugh.

She liked it when you were silly.

Oliver’s head snapped up. He whipped his gaze over his shoulder.

“Okay… who’s there?”

Silence.

He stood, heart pounding, eyes sweeping the corners. Nothing moved. The only sound was the faint hum of the refrigerator downstairs.

He turned his attention slowly back to the heap on the floor. He ran his hand over his face, "God, I need sleep."

He was losing it. He thought. He had been alone in his parents house for too long with nothing, but his thoughts.

"Music." He said quietly. "I've been doing this all without background noise."

His father kept an old radio in the garage. He quickly ran down the stairs, his footsteps thudded like he did when he was a teenager running to the bus. He could almost hear his mom yelling about how he was going to put a hole in the floor.

He reached the garage and muscle memory took over. His legs brought him to his fathers work bench-which was more for leaning and storing empty beer cans. The shelf just above sat his old radio from the 80's the newest piece of technology he had ever owned.

He turned the knob. That solid click rattled up through his palm, just as he remembered. The radio whined to life, still set to AM, pouring out Bing Crosby’s croon. Oliver stood there, listening, almost feeling his father’s bulk behind him, daring him to touch the dial.

His hand hovered. His father had been stubborn to the bone—it was always his way.

Oliver flipped the switch to FM. A rush of voices and static poured through, thin as ghosts, before guitars broke through the noise. Classic rock. The term made him feel old, but the riffs and lyrics pulled him straight back—like fifty years ago was only yesterday.

The signal dipped, sputtered, like it was fighting to hold on. Oliver fiddled with the antenna.

You… ran away.

Static swallowed the words. Then the music snapped back, louder than before.

Oliver froze. That was the same voice. Thin, small. From the radio this time.

No. He shook his head. Just the DJ. Just his own damn nerves. He hadn’t slept. Barely eaten.

He snapped the radio off, tucked it under his arm like it was nothing unusual, and carried it back inside. In the living room, he switched it on again. Hair metal blared through the house, loud enough to drown his thoughts.

The phone shrilled again, the landline rattling in its cradle like it might leap off the wall.

“What now?” Oliver barked. He turned the radio down a notch, stomped over, and yanked the receiver up with more force than necessary.

“What?!”

Silence.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

His jaw clenched. “Whoever this is—if you can hear me—my dad is dead. Thomas Peterson is dead!”

Oli isn’t.

The line went dead.

Oliver stood frozen, receiver pressed hard against his ear, his childhood nickname echoing in the silence. He slammed the phone down.

He snatched a fistful of garbage bags off the dining table and stormed upstairs. His bedroom door flew open under his sneaker.

Oliver muttered as he crammed his childhood into plastic: toys, small figurines, the pale yellow baby blanket. Memories bubbling up like rot.

“Not dead? I might as well be. Just a waste of space."

He shoved harder, jaw tight.

“Just another mouth to feed, right, Dad? Another inconvenience.”

His pace quickened. Report cards. Photo albums.

"Mom holding on to this useless shit."

He fisted up drawings from grade school and shoved them down, nearly punching through the paper.

Oli please

The voice was small, tentative.

Oliver snarled, shoving the bag aside. He kicked through the mess, fury rising in his chest.

“Who the hell are you?!”

He ripped hangers from the rod, the metal clattering like bones against the floor. He pushed stacks of books and boxes to the floor. He completely tore the closet apart as if he expected to find a someone hiding inside.

He turned away from the closet, breathless. He sat on the edge of the bed running his hands through his hair like he was going mad. The radio still played from downstairs. Oliver sat there with his head down in his hands. The voice spoke again in a whisper, it was so clear as if someone was sitting behind him.

Don't you know me?

He froze. He waited for someone or something to reach out and touch him. It never came.

A box tipped, spilling a sea of papers across the floor. Oliver sank to his knees. Crayon drawings. Poems he’d scribbled for his mom. Even some for his dad. She had kept them all.

Nestled between them were the notes she used to slip into his lunch. Her flawless cursive still crisp on the paper.

Mondays are always better with extra cookies.

Oliver’s throat tightened. He picked up a Mother’s Day card, edges frayed, glitter glued to construction paper. Beneath it lay a song he’d written for a class project. He read the verses and laughed under his breath—utter nonsense. But he remembered how his teacher had loved it so much she brought it up at a parent-teacher meeting.

More papers fanned out around him.

Being kind will never be a bad thing, another note read. He stared at the words, trying to place the memory. Then it came: that year, when the bullies wouldn’t let up. When every attempt at kindness made him feel like a fool. When his father met him with distain instead if empathy. His mother had pressed that note into his hand, told him to hold onto it. To hold onto himself.

In the last three days Oliver tore through the rooms, stripping the house bare in a desperate attempt to erase everything that had happened under this roof. He wasn’t just running from the house. He was running from himself—and the part he’d left behind.

The objects his mother had guarded like a vault now lay shredded, scattered, crushed into piles of paper and fabric. A teddy bear sprawled face down. Drawings ground into the carpet.

His room was a war zone.

He picked up a drawing he’d made when he was six. Crayon stick figures stood in the front yard. One grinned near the garden bed, pink and blue flowers blooming behind her. Another frowned from the driveway. And there he was—stick-thin, clutching something in his hand. A worm, maybe. Or a snake. He couldn’t quite remember.

His fingers grazed the paper.

Can you see me?

The voice filled him, not around him but inside.

Oliver’s throat caught. “Yes, Oli. I see you.” His voice cracked, just a fraction. He pressed the drawing against his chest. “And I’m sorry.”

He rocked gently with the drawing, letting it soak into him. All the years he’d spent hiding. Moving out had felt like freedom, but he’d carried the cage with him. Believing the lies. Keeping his head down. Too afraid to touch the world.

Missed chances. Friendships never made. A life half-lived.

A life wasted, he thought.

And yet, the drawing was warm in his hands. Proof that once, he had been seen. Once, he had been himself.

He whispered an apology to his mother’s ghost. The destruction felt like a betrayal, as if she’d been watching while he tore through the things she’d kept safe. In his anger he cursed his father, spitting the words into the stale air.

Then he folded in on himself, one more broken thing among the wreckage on the floor.

He wished he’d done differently. Wished he’d been braver, kinder—anyone but the man he’d become.

Eyes closed, he clutched the little drawing to his chest. A flimsy piece of paper, yet it felt like a life ring in open water, the only thing keeping him from going under.

By the next afternoon, Oliver had packed, donated, and dumped every last piece of history. Scattered like ashes in the wind.

He closed the trunk of his Pontiac on the few things he’d kept: his father’s tools and the old radio. Part of him relished the thought of blasting music his father would’ve hated.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, he gave the house one last look. A silent goodbye. The drawing and the sad little bear sat on the passenger seat like companions. His hand hovered on the ignition. Something felt unfinished.

Call her, Oli.

The voice wasn’t pleading now. It was certain.

Oliver picked up his phone. It rang. And rang. He almost hung up—then her voicemail answered. Her voice was soft, apologetic, like she already knew she hadn’t been there.

After the beep, Oliver gripped the wheel, silence thick in the car. For a moment he almost hung up. Then he forced the words out.

“Hey… I’m on my way home. Sorry I haven’t called. I was thinking—maybe I take you out tonight." He swallowed and hesitated again but he pushed the words out, "I miss you.”

He hung up fast and tossed the phone into the cup holder. Awkward. Stupid, even.

“Being kind will never be a bad thing."

He whispered, nodding to himself, letting it settle like a mantra.

He turned the ignition, pulled out of the cracked asphalt driveway, and for the first time in years, he felt like he was heading toward someone.