It’d been years since I lived there, but the memories of that place still caught me off-guard sometimes. Sometimes a single whiff of a snuffed candle, or the flash of a car’s headlights was enough to send me back there; back to the long road that cut through the cedars, back to the noisome rumble of the lumber camp in the hill, back to my father’s store where I grew up.

I know well and good that the place is gone; I looked it up some years back. The town is still around, though it’s changed mightily since I knew it. The wood buildings are mostly replaced with brick brought in from the rail line that didn’t exist when I knew it. The people are still there, I’m sure; people don’t get out of places like that. I was too young when I left, and I left with only a half-empty rucksack. I wouldn’t have left if I didn’t have to, but here I am now, half a world away. That place exists now only in memory. It’s for the best.

I wish it hadn’t been that way, sometimes. Every now and again, I can imagine how it could’ve gone different—if only I had stayed, had been there to argue for myself, to say that wasn’t how it happened. But I ran, like a coward does, and now, a lifetime later, I can stand on the front step of my house and think back on what could’ve been. If I hadn’t run, I probably wouldn’t be able to think on it. But, then again, if I hadn’t run, she would still be around to think of me. Sometimes, I think that would have been worth it.

The days are quiet here, though not in the same way as there; that place was full of friends and neighbors coming and going, chatting and visiting and caring. This place is louder in the physical sense, but people don’t stop by; partially my fault, I think. I’m not a sociable person. That’s why it shocks me when the phone rings; I keep the thing plugged in on account of that’s what people are supposed to do, but there’s dust on the handle and it hasn’t been used since the company man had it tested after the storm.

It’s somewhat of an annoyance, really; the morning is cool for this time of year, and the coffee is hot. The phone is back indoors, and it takes me some time to shuffle back over the stoop. The thing keeps ringing, as though trying to make up for lack of use, and it’s only through gritting my teeth and fixing a scowl on my face that I can stand to shove through the barrage of noise it creates. Finally, I get my gnarled fingers around the handle and lift it clumsily to my ear. “Hello? Who is this?” I grumble, somewhat more gruffly than I intended, but the phone isn’t the only thing that doesn’t see much use, and my manners have a thick layer of dust as well.

“Mister Neilson?” The other voice is soft; young. Feminine. For just a moment, the memories resurface, and the dirt of the memory-road crunches under my feet as I shuffle them to keep my balance.

“Yes, yes, who is this? What do you want?” Again, somewhat unkindly—but this woman is bothering an old man. She ought to know better than to bring those memories back to the front of my head.

“I—my name’s Leslie, sir. I’ve been looking for you for a long time, sir.” She paused, like a timid little rabbit, so much like another young woman so long ago. “Well, I’m your granddaughter, sir.”