Page 38 of What Remains of Grace

She hesitated outside the doorway before she could talk herself out of it.

Grace’s room still held a delicate trace of vanilla and ghosts. The same quilt lay folded at the foot of the bed. The same stack of paperbacks on the nightstand. Jenna sat on the edge of the mattress, the springs sighing beneath her, and felt the ache of realizing how long she’d been living half-moved-in.

She didn’t cry. Not exactly. Just let herself breathe in the space until it stopped feeling like trespassing.

When Biscuit hopped onto the bed beside her, circling once before settling, she reached out and scratched behind his ear. He purred, low and steady, the sound filling the room in a way silence never could.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket.

COLE: Sending over the revised timeline.

Efficient. Professional. Exactly what she’d told herself she wanted. She typed Got it. Looks good. Then deleted it.

Then typed it again.

The words stared back at her, too simple, too final. She set the phone face down and let the screen go dark.

The house had settled into that deep, nighttime stillness that only old places knew. Even Biscuit had gone quiet somewhere nearby, his small, steady presence the only proof she wasn’t entirely alone.

She changed into an old T-shirt and slipped beneath the quilt. The sheets were cool. It wasn’t comfort, not exactly, but it was close enough.

Her last thought before sleep was that maybe this was what moving forward really looked like. Not rebuilding everything at once. Just finally choosing a room.

10

What We Keep

By the time the first truck rumbled up the drive, the house was already awake. The air felt cleaner today, though a slight trace of dust still clung to the corners, proof of everything yesterday had torn open. Outside, voices carried across the yard, low, contented, confident.

Jenna stood in the doorway between the kitchen and Grace’s old room, arms folded, coffee in hand, watching the light stretch across the floorboards. The room looked stripped bare now, the bookshelves half-empty, the walls quieter somehow.

She started with the smallest things: folding Grace’s sweater, smoothing the quilt, straightening the books stacked by the lamp. Each motion felt like asking permission.

Grace’s scent lingered even after the fresh sheets, the familiar trace of this room’s former occupant. Jenna sat on the edge of the bed and set her planner on the nightstand.

She murmured to the empty space, “I’m just . . . making room.”

Biscuit padded in from the hall, hopped onto the bed, and circled once before settling against her leg.

“Guess we’re doing this,” she whispered, brushing his fur. “You, me, and all the ghosts.”

* * *

By late morning, every room was buzzing with motion. The sound of footsteps and clinking boxes replaced the hush of memory, and the movement finally felt like progress.

Now, Jenna and Emmie stood shoulder to shoulder, sorting. They’d made three boxes: KEEP, DONATE, and CAN’T.

The CAN’T box filled first.

“Are we supposed to decide today?” Emmie asked, holding up a faded dish towel with strawberries on it.

“No. We don’t have to decide anything today. But if we don’t at least get started, we never will.”

Emmie folded the towel carefully and dropped it in KEEP.

From the porch came the muffled sound of hammering. Cole had promised to fix the loose step by the side door, and true to his word, he was there before they’d even opened the curtains.

She walked over to the window and looked through the screen. She could see his forearm flex as he held the board in place, the muscles shifting with every measured strike. He must’ve felt her watching, because the hammering stopped and he glanced up, flashing that disarming smile.