Looking around the house.
Hidden behind the window and the door.
Searching for signs of life but there's nobody home.

He'd come back, because he needed closure. The phone was disconnected (well, the one time he'd tried to call, it had been). The house was still a wreck. His family had moved.

They'd left no forwarding address.

Shoving his keys into his pocket, Bobby shouldered open the door with the big sign labeling the house unfit for habitation. The scent of smoke lingered everywhere. Scorchmarks decorated the furniture (the parts that weren't burned beyond recognition, anyway), and black streaks colored the peeling wall paper.

He walked through the house, broken glass crunching under his sneakers, clinging to the soles, grinding with each step he took. The pictures were burned, the frames crisped, the glass shattered. One of the ones higher up had survived, and he pulled it down, gazing at it. The four of them, dressed up, with fake smiles on. He remembered that day; it was just a few weeks before he'd gone to the school. Ronny had been complaining ... but Ronny was always complaining.

Feeling the sting of tears in pale blue eyes, he cradled the picture in one arm as he continued to move through the house.

Sitting around the house,
watching the sun trace shadows on the floor.
Searching for signs of life, but there's nobody home.

His room was in disarray, but did he really have a right to call it his, anymore? He sat on the edge of his bed, recalling the last time he was here. Before. Before everything had gone to hell. There wasn't much fire damage up here. A few spots on the floor, where the fire had licked up from below, a bit of smoke-smell lingering.

If he closed his eyes, if he ignored the smell, he could almost, almost pretend that he'd hear them come home, any minute. He didn't know how long he remained in his old room, waiting for sounds he'd never hear. Opening his eyes, lashes heavy with tears, he stood up.

Well, maybe I'll call
or write you a letter.

He made his way carefully down the stairs, the picture pressed against his chest. He knew he'd never see them again. He wished he'd be able to, to say everything he wanted to say, to apologize. He wanted to write them a note, but where would he send it?

If they wanted to see him, talk to him, call him, they knew where he was. He'd have to be content with that.

He let himself outside, but the day seemed obscenely bright, cheerful. Cutting across the burned up lawn to his car, he turned his eyes back to the house, for one last look ... but that chapter of his life was over.

It was time to move on.