Familiar Windows, Stranger’s Light

The house on Waverly Street had been vacant for nearly six months before Michael noticed the "For Sale" sign had been replaced with one that read "SOLD." He drove past it every morning on his way to work, but today, something about it pulled at him, the way an old song does when you catch it on the radio at the wrong time — unexpected, unwelcome, and drenched in memory.

The house had been his once, a long time ago, before everything unraveled, before grief hollowed him out and left him drifting through a life that never quite fit anymore. He had convinced himself that he didn’t care, that he’d moved on, that the past was the past. But now, staring at the house from the driver’s seat, he felt something crack open inside him. The thought of someone else living there — occupying the rooms where his life had once existed — burrowed deep, twisting like a splinter under the skin.

He didn’t slow down, didn’t even glance at it for longer than a second. Looking too long might make it real, might force him to acknowledge the weight pressing on his chest. Instead, he kept driving.

By the time he pulled into the parking lot at work, he was barely aware of having driven there. His body had gone through the motions — turning the wheel, pressing the gas, shifting into park — but his mind was stuck on Waverly Street, on the past, on a house that wasn’t his anymore.

His shift at the hardware store passed in a blur. Customers came and went. Coworkers spoke in passing. He answered when necessary, smiled when expected, but it was all mechanical. He was trapped in a place no one else could see, in memories that refused to stay buried.

That evening, when his shift ended, he found himself back on Waverly Street without meaning to be. Or maybe he had meant to, deep down. Maybe he’d been heading here all along.

The house sat quietly, its windows dark, its porch still lined with the same sagging wooden railings he used to lean against on summer nights. It looked different, though. Neglected. Time had taken its toll, but not enough to erase what had been. Not enough to make it feel like anything other than home.

A single porch light flicked on. Someone was home.

Michael clenched the steering wheel. He should leave. Drive away, go home, pretend he hadn’t come.

But he didn’t

Instead, he parked a block down and walked back, keeping to the shadows. His presence felt wrong, like a ghost haunting a life that had moved on without him. The night air was cool, carrying the scent of damp leaves and distant rain. He stepped carefully onto the sidewalk, his footsteps silent against the pavement.

What was he doing?

Did he expect the house to give him answers?

Did he think standing here would somehow stitch the past back together?

Through the glass, he saw a woman — late thirties, maybe — standing in the middle of the living room, looking down at a half-unpacked box. A young boy, no older than seven or eight, sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through an old picture book.

Michael swallowed hard.

That had been his living room. His daughter, Babz, had sat in that very spot, her curls bouncing as she giggled at something he'd said. His wife, Nancy, had leaned against the doorway with that soft smile she used to have before everything fell apart.

He had a life here. A family. And then, in one cruel instant, it was all gone.

His wife couldn’t bear to stay after Babz died. Michael had tried — tried to hold the house together, tried to fill the silence — but grief had turned the walls into tombstones, had made every doorway a threshold to another painful memory.

So he left. Or maybe, more truthfully, he ran.

And now, someone else was living in his grief, walking through his past as if it belonged to them.

But maybe that was the problem. Maybe it did belong to them now.

For weeks, he kept coming back.

He told himself he wasn’t doing anything wrong — just looking, just watching. Not interfering. Not stepping onto the property.

He told himself it was curiosity. But deep down, he knew it was something closer to obsession.

The woman — her name was Dorene, he learned from overhearing conversations — was a single mother. The boy, Marix, was quiet but full of curiosity, always poking around the yard, climbing the old oak tree out back. Michael watched him and thought about Babz, about the way she used to cling to those same branches, fearless, laughing, shouting for him to watch.

He never stayed for long. Just long enough to make sure the house was still standing. Just long enough to remind himself that he didn’t belong there anymore.

But then, one night, something felt… off.

He stood near the curb, hands buried in his jacket pockets, watching the dim glow of lights from inside. The curtains were drawn, but he could see movement — Dorene pacing, talking on the phone, her voice tense. The boy wasn’t in sight.

Then, suddenly, a loud crash echoed from inside.

Michael stiffened.

Another sound followed — a muffled shout, a sharp cry.

Before he could think, before he could tell himself to stay out of it, he was already moving.

He was halfway up the porch steps when the door flew open, and Dorene nearly ran into him.

Her eyes widened in shock. “Who—”

A loud wail cut through the air.

Marix.

Michael caught sight of him behind her, clutching his hand, blood trickling down his fingers. A shattered glass lay on the kitchen floor.

“Shit,” Dorene muttered, spinning back toward her son.

Michael hesitated. He had no right to be here. No reason to be standing on her porch like some ghost that refused to let go.

But then Dorene looked at him again, eyes filled with something like desperation. “I need — there’s a first aid kit in the bathroom, top shelf. Can you grab it?”

He could’ve said no. Should’ve said no.

But he didn’t.

He nodded and stepped inside.

The house smelled different now. Gone was the faint scent of Nancy's lavender candles, replaced with something softer, like vanilla and old books. The furniture was different, the walls repainted, but beneath it all, it was still the same house.

He moved quickly, found the first aid kit, and brought it to her. She worked swiftly, cleaning the cut on Marix’s hand, murmuring reassurances.

Michael lingered by the doorway, unsure what to do. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to feel the past curling around him like a phantom touch.

But then Dorene looked up. “Thank you.”

Her voice was steady, but her eyes held questions.

He should leave. He should never come back.

But instead, he nodded, exhaled, and said, “I used to live here.”

Dorene blinked.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Then, softly, she said, “I thought so.”

And just like that, the past and present collided.

“Why did you leave?”

His throat tightened. The words felt heavy, thick with years of grief. “My daughter…” His voice broke, and he swallowed hard. “She — she died. Car accident. My wife couldn’t—” He shook his head. “She left. I couldn’t stay here after that.”

Dorene's expression softened. “I’m sorry.”

Finally, Dorene spoke again. “Do you want to come in? Just for a little while.”

Michael hesitated.

This wasn’t his house anymore.

But maybe — just maybe — it was time to let it go.

He stepped inside.

And closed the door behind him.