The house settles into silence after they leave. I'm alone with my laptop, staring at a cursor that blinks like an accusation. I've been trying to write—anything, something. But the words have been stuck since the funeral. Writing used to be my escape, my dream, a passion Dad helped nurture. Now the blank screen feels like staring into an abyss. My attempts at creativity are interrupted by Lydia's soft knock.

"You didn't want to join the boys?" she asks, voice gentle as she appears in the doorway.

"Not really in a party mood this summer," I reply, the words trailing off as unwanted memories threaten to surface.

Lydia settles beside me on the bed, brushing a stray hair from my face with maternal tenderness. "Nora, honey, you're only sixteen once. After everything you've been through, it's okay to just be a teenager again. Your dad would want you to keep living, to experience life," she encourages, her voice soft but sure.

"I still have nightmares about it," I admit, my eyes fixed on the mockingly empty screen.

"Come here." Lydia opens her arms, and as I lean into her embrace, it feels like being wrapped in pure warmth. "He may be gone physically, but he'll always be here.” She taps my head, then my heart. We share a moment of understanding before she stands, her gaze falling on the outfit I'd tossed across the rocking chair earlier.

"I think you should wear that tonight," she suggests, her tone light but encouraging.

"The boys have already left, and it's late⁠⁠—"

"It's only 9:30. Your ride is waiting downstairs," she counters, presenting the outfit with a hopeful smile.

"Go enjoy your last couple of weeks being sixteen," she insists, laying the clothes on my bed. At the door, she adds with a conspiratorial wink, "Just don't do anything your mother and I wouldn't. And definitely don't tell her I said that."

Standing in my room, I hover between two versions of myself—the one who crawls into bed with a book, and the one who takes a chance tonight. The past will always be there, but maybe I don't have to live in its shadow forever. I want to feel something other than this numbness that's become my constant companion this past year.

I smooth down my denim skirt—definitely shorter than my usual comfort zone—and try to ignore how exposed I feel in this top. A jacket would defeat the purpose, but the evening air reminds me exactly how much skin I'm showing. Standing here, I seriously question my sanity.

I should be in pajamas, not whatever this is. I head for the stairs anyway.

"Have fun!" Lydia calls from the kitchen.

"Be safe, Nora!" Mom adds.

"I will!" I shout back, my voice projecting more confidence than I feel.