There was a third of the night left, at the very most, when I viewed the house from the outside. It seemed unchanged. It remained untended, unpainted—unkempt. The tree in the front was winter-bare and spindly. Dirty mounds of snow built up in the corners and under the bare hedges, while patches of yellow grass showed through, looking forlorn and spooky in the dark. The memories of this house were clear to me but oddly devoid of emotion.

The emotions of too many others swirled about inside of me; I had no room for my own.

The lock on the cellar door was probably still broken. My footsteps crunched delicately on the snow of the driveway as I walked to the side of the house, then around the rear. The steps down to the cellar door were covered with undisturbed snow; I stepped through it without hesitation, descended the steps, and lay my hand on the frigid, tarnished knob. The sound it made as it turned was as familiar to my ears as the sound of my own heartbeat. It was never locked; it was always stuck, but I knew the right combination of movements: Push on the top corner, pull on the knob, jiggle once, and lift up.

The door opened inward, scraping softly on the concrete floor. I slipped in and closed it gently behind me.

The smell was the same—sweet and moldy, as if centuries of drying apples had permeated the damp concrete and wood with their scent. This was my favorite smell of all time. I breathed deeply, closing my eyes, tuning my senses, feeling—home. Relieved. Tired. Back—after a long, long journey.

I would sleep later. First, I had to discover the occupants.

Carefully, I discerned the litter in the cellar: bicycles, boxes marked “Xmas,” fishing equipment, a basketball hoop, a huge, ripped archery target. One corner of the cellar had been built up with shelves, and the shelves were filled with home-preserved fruit, vegetables, jellies, and sauces; the lower shelves were stacked deep and high with canned goods.

A spiderweb caught across my eyelashes as I walked under the stairs where the old round washing machine was still stored. This was the pink, metal washing machine I remembered from my childhood. It had an electric wringer on the top. I trailed my finger in its dust. An old red hobbyhorse sat in the other corner, along with a dismantled crib and a child’s white play kitchen that had been left mid-tea party, with dolls still in their seats.

Two children in this family, I thought, and went to the stairs. I remembered which creaked and which did not, and with the help of my cane slowly mounted them, and at the top opened the door to the kitchen.

Four humans slept in the house. I could smell them.