The pickup truck rumbled to a halt on the overgrown drive. Dust billowed around Amelia, momentarily obscuring the skeletal remains of the porch swing she'd spent countless summer afternoons on. She stepped out, her hand automatically reaching for the familiar groove worn into the weathered wood of the front door. It was locked. Her stomach twisted.
A crow called from the gnarled oak tree in the yard, its harsh cry echoing the sudden tightness in her chest. She remembered her father teaching her to identify the different bird calls from that very oak, his hand resting on her shoulder. The sensation, phantom but vivid, sent a shiver down her spine. The air smelled of damp earth and decaying leaves, a perfume that always meant home. It was strange to think that soon, this wouldn't be.
Amelia traced a finger along the peeling paint of the window frame, a slow, deliberate movement. The glass was cloudy with age, obscuring the view of the living room where she’d celebrated her fifth birthday. It was a blur of bright balloons and the scent of her mother's baking. A sob caught in her throat, quickly stifled. She turned away, unable to bear the weight of it any longer.