Chapter 195

Where else could I go to hold onto their memories?

“Keira,” a voice called from the stairwell. It was Ms. Brown, Hayden’s landlord. I didn’t need to ask; I knew she’d heard about the demolition.

“Keira, they’re really going to tear this place down… such a shame,” she sighed. I remained silent, my sadness evident.

Ms. Brown continued, “I just spent money fixing up my place. It’s barely been rented a month, and now I have to evict the tenant. What a waste.”

“Keira, I’ve been trying to reach the young man renting my place, but he’s not answering. If you see him, could you tell him to call me back? And perhaps give him a heads-up about the demolition so he can find a new place and pack.”

“Sure,” I agreed.

“Thanks, Keira,” Ms. Brown said politely, her tone shifting. “You’ve met him, right? That guy renting my place—he seems decent, doesn’t he?”

I smiled slightly. “Yeah, he’s alright.”

“Just alright? You have high standards! If I had a daughter, I’d be pushing for her to marry him,” Ms. Brown joked, clearly impressed by Hayden.

“You could always try for another child,” I teased.

She laughed. On any other day, she might have taken that as disrespectful, but given the recent news about the sixty-something-year-old woman who had a baby, she simply chuckled. “I don’t have that kind of energy! Don’t make fun of me.”

I smiled and let her continue. “You should start sorting your things out too. Toss what you don’t need or sell it. I know a guy who collects scrap—pays well and is really nice. I’ll give you his number; you can call him when you’re ready.”

Her eagerness to help was overwhelming. After receiving the number, Ms. Brown left, heading upstairs.

The moment I opened my apartment door, memories flooded back, stinging my eyes with tears. Some things, no matter how hard you try, you just can't hold onto. My dad used to say that when you can't hold onto something, you have to let it go. Knowing the demolition was inevitable, after a brief moment of sadness, I began assessing the apartment, planning my next steps. I decided to start packing, beginning with the storage room. My parents' rooms? I wasn’t ready to touch those yet.

As I sorted through things, I resolved to buy my own place as soon as possible. That way, I could keep everything my parents left behind. There were so many old things—the bookshelf from my childhood, the tiny tricycle, my parents’ gardening tools, my dad’s fishing gear, my mom’s painting supplies… Everything was old, but nothing I could simply discard. The more I packed, the more crucial it became to find a place for it all.

While clearing out the clutter, I found an old wicker trunk. I recognized it instantly—a childhood photo showed me sitting on top of it. My dad said it was his “suitcase” from the orphanage, his travel bag. I opened it, and there, on top, was one of my dad’s dark blue vests. Hayden’s green vest immediately sprang to mind.

Underneath the vest was a notebook, a pen still clipped to the cover. My dad’s familiar handwriting filled the pages; the grief was overwhelming, a crushing weight on my chest. Tears welled up, blurring the ink. I quickly wiped them away, accidentally knocking the notebook off the bed. Something slipped out from between the pages—a contract. I skimmed the contents, freezing on the last page at the signature and company stamp.