My dad and I pulled up to the house where three people don't exist anymore.
We get out, and we go inside. It doesn't feel right. It feels strange without those three, now that they don't exist anymore. I miss the pet bird, too. The woman who doesn't exist anymore always claimed he talked, but no-one else ever heard it.
I go upstairs, and I look at a pile of things that my mother wants to keep. We put them in boxes, and we put into boxes things we don't want. When we've done that, we take them downstairs, then we go back up, and go into the back bedroom.
It wasn't always a bedroom. When the man existed, it was a workshop where he made model airplanes, and the boy who doesn't exist watched him.
So we empty papers out of the Drawers, and put them in binbags. My dad looks at some, so I start to pile them up for him to look at, and decide what we keep and what we throw away. When I'm done, I ask him what he's reading. It's a story, written by the boy who doesn't exist anymore. When he takes the trash down, I look at the story, and I remember it. I don't remember the ending, so I read it. I remember the story, and remember the three others. I wonder if I should write another, and realise the Boy does exist, I'd just forgotten.
And I think about the others, and realise that they may be gone, but they will still exist in my memories. I smile at the memories, and carry the things down to the van...
