Every creak of the floorboards beneath her boots sounded louder now that the animals were gone. The stalls were empty, long since stripped of hay and purpose. Even the worn nameplates—Bessie, Duke, Honey—still hung above the gates, cracked and fading.
She took her time with each corner. Not because it was necessary. But because it felt like penance. It had been years since she’d been in here, really been in here. She used to help her father muck the stalls and feed the goats.