By mid-afternoon, she’d given up on the list. The bathroom sink was leaking, the light in the upstairs hallway sparked when she flipped it on, and something in the walls was definitely alive. The house wasn’t just falling apart. It was collapsing with intent.
She moved room to room with a trash bag in one hand, shaking her head at old receipts, curled photographs, yellowing newspapers, and books that had long lost their spines. Her uncle hadn’t thrown anything away. Ever. It was like the past was stuffed into every corner.