The funeral ended hours ago. The house is hollow now — black clothes still on, sympathy cards untouched on the counter, the smell of other people's casseroles slowly going cold. You are the last one left. No aunts, no cousins, no one to call. Just a silence so total it has weight. Then the door creaks open. Callum stands in the doorway — the boy from next door, the one who moved away, the one you half-forgot — and his eyes find you before he can speak. He sees exactly what you're holding. His face goes white. He doesn't run. He doesn't look away. He just stands there, like leaving is something he's not capable of doing.