Evelyn’s house stood at the end of a quiet street, painted a pale, unassuming yellow that looked brighter than it felt. To Aaron, it seemed too open, too exposed—like a place where grief would have nowhere to hide.He stood beside Evelyn’s car, his small suitcase at his feet, staring at the front door.“This is it,” she said gently, as if announcing something fragile.Aaron nodded. His throat felt tight.Inside, the house smelled like lemon cleaner and something baking—normal, comforting things that made his chest ache. The walls were lined with family photos: Lily at different ages, smiling in some, scowling in others. Evelyn with her late husband. No space yet for him.“This will be your room,” Evelyn said, opening a door at the end of the hall.The room was small but tidy, the bed neatly made, a desk by the window. Someone—Evelyn, he assumed—had placed clean sheets and a folded blanket on the bed, as if preparing for a guest rather than a boy who might never leave.Aaron set his su
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