The house looked grey under the overcast sky, the windows dark and empty.

We walked through the rooms, our footsteps echoing on the bare hardwood floors.

There were faded patches on the walls where portraits used to hang.

I stood in the kitchen, looking down at the door that led to the cellar.

The police had removed the lock, leaving only the empty screw holes in the wood.

I did not feel angry anymore.

I felt nothing but a quiet sense of relief.

We walked out to the backyard, where the grass was starting to turn green.

The old tool shed sat at the edge of the property line, near the woods.

I used Arthur’s key to open the door.

Inside, the shelves were dusty, filled with old flowerpots and rusted garden tools.

We spent the afternoon clearing out the clutter, piling the old wood near the fence.

By the time the sun began to set, the shed was empty.

The orange light of the sunset filtered through the dusty window, lighting up the wooden floorboards.

“What are you thinking?” Wyatt asked, leaning against the doorframe.