We continue past a cozy sitting area with a bench and two chairs neatly arranged with plush pillows.

“You have access to the whole house, Penny. There’s a common room, our own little hair salon, and we serve all our meals in the house’s original dining room. We renovated it completely, but it was built in 1843.”

We walk slowly, carefully, my hand on her arm for support.

“You’ll feel at home in no time. I promise,” she says.

A painting hanging on the wall catches my eye. I stop to look at it. I know it. I recognize it.

“We have lots of art around,” she says. “I figured you’d appreciate that.”

A still life, a table full of food, oysters, half-peeled lemons, grapes. “De Heem,” I say.

“You know it?” Shelley says. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s so nice for us to have an artist living here now.”

I look up at her. She knows that I paint?

“Don’t get too excited,” she says. “It’s just a print. Not the real thing.”

“This feels rushed. I wasn’t expecting to be here,” I say. “I have my own apartment. I’d like to go home.”

“It’s going to be an adjustment for you. But you’ll get to know us. And to be honest, I know it sounds funny, but I feel like I already know you.”

“You do?”

“Yes, we have a lot of details in our file, and I’ve been looking forward to meeting you and getting you settled. It’s so nice to finally have you here.”

I remember now what Mike said. That we planned for this day, that he gave a deposit for me to have a spot here. That we picked it because it was in a quiet spot, outside the city, in nature. I wonder, before he died, did he actually send her information about me, about my life? I definitely didn’t. Or did Mike? What is it she thinks she knows about me? We continue walking until we reach a red door.

“And here we are.”

She steps in first, but I hesitate on the threshold.

“It’s okay,” she says. “Take your time, Penny.”

I step into the room. It’s clean, bright. It’s warm. The large bed must be a queen. It has a thick duvet and makes me appreciate how modest my double bed was, the bed I shared with him for so long and later had all to myself. There’s a recliner chair in a corner, a lamp, a dresser, and a desk. There’s a grand window on the far wall facing out to the endless forest.

There’s no clutter. No dust. No trinkets. Every surface is polished. It’s nothing like my apartment. In fact, it’s the opposite.

“Nice, isn’t it?”

She’s right. It is nice. I can almost feel a weight lifted off my shoulders, not having to think about objects. No debris. All that stuff comes with obligation and duty. It hits me that I won’t be the responsible one here. No upkeep or cleaning. No laundry. No shopping. No bills or light bulbs to change. No decision-making.