The room is very quiet.
The ranch house had felt strange when you first stepped into it. Not luxurious exactly, though bigger and cleaner than any home you have known. Just cared for. Solid wood. Old furniture polished with use instead of pretension. A blue ceramic bowl of apples on the counter. A Bible with cracked leather on a side table. Family photographs that had not been hidden in drawers because memory was welcome here instead of dangerous.
Now the quiet around you feels heavier.
You finally pick up the photograph.
The baby in the woman’s arms is small, maybe six months old, with a knitted cap and a blanket tucked under one fist. You should not know, but you do. It is the kind of knowing that comes from some old animal part of you that recognizes itself before reason can catch up.
