As I walk slowly through the living room, taking in each detail, the floors snap and creak underfoot, settling into place under my weight as I go. I stop in front of the large stone fireplace. Its hearth is the size of two small children end to end, and its mantel is one long piece of red, grainy wood. Thick gray stones with flecks of sparkle are piled on top of each other to make up the solid structure.

It’s the backbone of the cottage, its chimney running right up to the second floor and out onto the roof. Without it, I’m sure, the whole place would crumble. It’s been thirty years since a fire burned in it, but the smoky scent is still strong. I think of all the fires we sat in front of on rainy days and late August nights when temperatures started to drop.

Moving away from the fireplace, I head into the kitchen. It’s silent and still, but there’s an unnerving sense that somebody has only just ducked out of sight. Like a child playing hide-and-seek, holding their breath, waiting to be discovered.

Nothing in the place has been disturbed. The building hasn’t risen up in retaliation for our abandonment and shaken everything about, as I almost believed it would. No animals have invaded the place, turning it into their home once our human scent dissipated. The island has kept everything locked up safe and sound, exactly where it should be, waiting for one of us to make our way back.

I pull open the cutlery drawer and find the pile of mismatched forks, knives, and spoons lying on a bed of mouse droppings. Some of the pieces have become slightly tarnished, but otherwise they’re available for use. The sight of the colorful Fiestaware dishes, still neatly stacked in the upper cabinets, brings back a lifetime of summer meals in one split second.

Leaving the kitchen, I wander into the dining room. French glass doors give me a direct view into the backyard. The large raised garden bed where my mother grew vegetables is now just a mound of dirt and grass that looks like the grave of a giant.

The round charcoal barbecue grill on the flagstone patio has tipped over, and moss has begun to climb across its metal back. The very same moss that creeps up the legs of the old picnic table—one side sinking so far into the ground that it’s lopsided.

I turn away from the decay to study the well-worn surface of the long harvest table. It’s big enough to seat twelve, but it was usually just May, my mother, and me who ate at it. My father was away most of the time, and when he was there he preferred barbecues on the back patio.