By dusk, the house had become bare walls and echoing floors. My footsteps sounded too loud. The rooms looked larger than I remembered, and somehow smaller too, the way a place looks when everything that made it a home has been carried away.
I left the heat on.
I put fresh toilet paper in the bathrooms.
I’m not heartless.
In the middle of the living room, I left one metal folding chair.
On that chair, I placed the largest box.
Inside it was another box.
Then another.
Eight in total.
Inside the smallest one, I placed the neon-green key with a white gift tag.
Your new spare key.
Underneath it, I tucked the cabin confirmation for Erica’s parents — a single folded sheet, printed neatly, with the cabin’s address, the dates, and the maximum occupancy of two written right there in black and white.
Then I sealed every box and wrote across the top in thick black marker:
FOR ERICA AND CRAIG. HAPPY NEW YEAR.