Free The Way Home by Dallas Schulze

before, but a more careful look made it clear that no one lived here. The clapboards showed traces of having once been white, but the paint was now cracked and peeling, gray with dirt and age. The windows were dirty enough to make curtains irrelevant. The front porch sagged tiredly, looking as if even the lightest of footsteps might cause a complete collapse. One of the posts that supported the porch roof had broken years before, and the cracked end was supported by a ramshackle stack of bricks and old boards that brought it more or less in line with its companions.
    Obviously the place had been empty for a long time. The only signs of life were the rambling roses that twined around the posts and then clambered over the sagging porch roof in wild abandon.
    “I didn’t know it was like this,” Ty said slowly.
    “Who lived here?”
    “My grandparents. My father’s parents,” he clarified. “Grandma died seven or eight years ago and Grandpa went a year later. I haven’t been out here since then.”
    “It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here since then,” Meg commented, gauging the growth of the roses.
    “They always took such pride in this place. Grandpa used to boast that there wasn’t a weed in the county that could get by Grandma’s hoe.” Ty rested his forearms on the steering wheel, his eyes scanning the property as if trying to find some trace of the immaculate scene he remembered.
    “It must have been nice,” Meg said, wishing she could see it as he remembered it.
    “When I was a boy, I thought this was just about the best place in all the world.” He pushed open his door and got out. As he circled the car to open Meg’s door, his shoes crunched on the dried remains of last year’s weeds, concealed by the fresh spring crop of grasses.
    Meg stepped out, the hem of her skirt catching in the tall grass as she followed Ty up to the porch. Seen up close, the house looked even more neglected. The windows that flanked the front door stared blindly out at them, like an old woman whose eyes were dimmed by age and hopelessness.
    “Watch your step.” Ty took her arm, guiding her around a splintered board. The door wasn’t locked but lack of use had stiffened the hinges, and he had to put his shoulder against it to force it open so that they could step inside.
    The dirt on the windows blocked most of the sunlight, keeping the rooms in deep shadow. The house smelled musty and old. Meg followed Ty as he walked through the empty rooms, trying to imagine what it must have looked like with furniture and curtains, the oak floors polished and a fresh coat of paint on the walls.
    “It must have been very pretty when your grandmother was alive,” she said, using her fingers to brush the dirt off a patch of wall, revealing the floral wallpaper underneath.
    “I don’t think I ever thought of it one way or another,” Ty said. “But it always felt like home.”
    More so than his mother’s house? Meg wondered but didn’t ask.
    “There was never a speck of dirt in this house, unless I’d just tracked it in. But Gram never scolded, even if she’d just mopped. And the kitchen always smelled of bread or cookies.”
    He turned slowly, looking at the thick layer of dirt on every surface, the rust that marked the huge black wood-burning stove. A rag hung at the window over the sink, the only remains of a pair of crisp white curtains. There was something approaching grief in his eyes as reality replaced memories.
    “It wouldn’t take much to put it into shape again,” Meg said. “It’s mostly just dirt. A little elbow grease and it would look shiny as a new penny.”
    He shook his head slowly. “It doesn’t matter. They’re gone.”
    “It must be very hard to lose someone you love,” she said quietly. He turned to look at her, his dark eyes unreadable, and she flushed, wondering if he was thinking of the fact that she’d lost her father and should know what it felt like to lose someone she loved.
    “Of