The gate creaked open with eerie ease, its hinges silent despite the years.
“Good as new,” muttered Mr. Thompson under his breathwho else would keep things tidy while he was gone?
He stepped into the yard, dropped his rucksack by the porch, then paced the gravel path, fingers brushing the tarnished brass doorknob.
Where was the key?
Old Tom had one, but he couldnt bear to ask, not after the journey. Then it struck himhe reached above the doorframe, fishing out a key on a frayed black cord.
The lock clicked, the door swung inward, and the lace curtainsonce stitched by Emilyfluttered like ghosts in the draft.
He wandered inside without turning on the lights. The air smelled of home, of worn wood and old books. His throat tightened. His heart hammered.
Blast ithis pills were still in the rucksack. He fetched them, slipped one under his tongue, waited for the drumming in his chest to fade.
Home.
“Oiwhos there?” A voice boomed from the open doorway.
“Just me, Bill.”
“Arthur? That you?”
“Aye.”
“Whereve you been? Your Lizzie came round with some folkssaid you were in hospital, something about arrangements.”
“Over my dead body,” Arthur chuckled. “What folks?”
“Dunno. City types. Lizzie kept pointing things outreckon theyre buyers. Anyway, come over, yeah? The missuss done supper.”
“Nah. Cheers, Bill. Thanks for minding the place.”
“Dont be daft. Come on.”
“Im home.”
Bill huffed but left. Arthur settled by the window, watching the sunrise paint the walls gold.
By noon, an engine growled outside. A car? Lizzie in some flash motor?
But strangers tumbled outlaughing, lugging suitcases, boxes. A boy, no older than four, tilted his head. “We live here now.”
“Like hell you do,” Arthur snapped, slamming the door. They shoved it back open, babbling about drafts. Drafts? The windows were shut.
“Ill call the police!” he roared, but they muscled past him.
“Mum, is Grandad staying with us?” the boy asked, pointing at a portrait.
“Dont be silly, Alfie. Thats the old owner. Pack that upwell return it.”
Arthur snatched a sketch from the pileLizzies drawing for Remembrance Day. His hands shook. Shed sold it. Sold *home*.
Then Lizzie arrived. He rushed to her. “Lizzie, love”
She swept right past.
Alfie tugged her sleeve. “Mum, Grandads here. Hes sad about the house.”
She froze. “What did you say?”
Arthur whispered to Alfie, who repeated: “Remember when you flew to Spain and shouted about seeing clouds upside down? Or when you hid from Farmer Cobbs geese? Or the time you waited under the oak for an apple to bonk you like Newton?”
Lizzie swayed. “*Dad?*”
Alfie nodded. “He says he loves you. Hes always here.”
The room fell silent. Women wept. Men wiped their eyes.
Lizzie sat on the garden bench, Alfie beside her.
“I have to go now, love,” Alfie murmured suddenly.
“Dad”
“Dont cry, my Lizzie.”
She hugged Alfie tight as her phone rang. A nurses voice: “*Its a boy.*”
Stunned, Lizzie stared at the sky. *But the scan said girl*
Alfie shrugged. “Grandad told me.”
Her tears fell. “Thank you Dad. And goodbye.”
