This Was Home [h.s.]

| 18. ROOFTOP |

Harry's POV

  The faint sound of Brin snoring beside me echoed against the walls. I had gotten used to it after all these nights. Shockingly, I wasn't annoyed by it either.

Well maybe slightly, but I let it slide. It was nice to have her company—company of any kind was good sometimes. Necessary even.

I shifted my body to the side so I could face her. We were both laid down on the floor in our makeshift beds. Sleeping on hard ground was normal for me, but I knew it was something Brin hadn't completely adjusted to quite yet. I made sure to give her majority of the cushions I had to offer because of it. It was the best I could do with what we packed.

Her mouth was slightly agape as her head rested against one of my sweaters as a pillow. The blanket wrapped around her was tightly fisted underneath her chin. She looked like a proper cocoon, ready to blossom out into a butterfly by morning.

I chuckled lightly under my breath, moving my eyes back around the room. We were upstairs in my old bedroom. Each time I had come here there were new changes made by Mother Nature herself. Last time there weren't nearly as many cracks in the walls or leafy roots sticking out through the windows. The realization felt like a blow to the chest, reminding me of the inevitable passage of time and the destruction that followed with it.

My old rickety furniture still rested in its designated placement, abandoned and left to rot. Some of it was broken, some hadn't moved an inch—only to collect dust over the years. I was too scared to move anything. I didn't want any of it to change if I could help it. It was all I had left to store my memories. The only thing that gave me physical reminders of the life I once lived. With mom.

A sigh broke through my parted lips and I closed my eyes for a moment, focusing on Brin's sleeping breaths.

Everything felt peaceful again.

I knew we were going to have to leave tomorrow and a part of me felt sad about it. Whenever I would visit my old home, I would normally stay for awhile. I would stay until the memories became too much and I couldn't take it anymore. The longest I had been able to last was a week or two—I wasn't completely sure the exact amount.

There were so many memories built inside this home, even in the neighborhood—the whole town actually. In those days of solitude where I'd lock myself in this house, I would spend hours upon hours thinking back. On occasion I would walk through the memories—through the old trails, old school football fields, old everything.

As I got older, the more anger and sadness it consumed me with. It was probably why I stopped visiting so frequently. It hurt too much.

The fabric of the blanket brushed against my skin as I nestled in closer. I took one last look at the sleeping figure in front of me, as if to double check that she was still there. As if anything had changed within the last few seconds of listening to her snore.