Timberlines

At sunset, they parked where the old house used to stand. Pine needles softened their steps, and memory sharpened everything else. He squeezed her hand, pointing to nothing, to everything. The kitchen window, the porch swing, the hallway where laughter had once ricocheted. She smiled, then frowned, seeing children dart through empty arches that weren't there. Wind moved like a breath through ghosts of beams. They argued quietly about staying, about building, about leaving. Night gathered. The shapes faded. He turned the key. She watched the absence settle, and finally said yes. A car idled nearby, carrying a future they feared.