I didn’t say a single word to my father as I walked out of that office. I didn’t need to. I took the elevator down to the street, stepped out into the crisp, rain-washed air, and hailed a cab.

When I finally pulled up to the driveway on Oak Lane, the house looked different. It didn’t look like a mausoleum or a place of sadness anymore. It looked like a fortress.

I walked up to the side door. The locksmith had already come and gone, but I didn’t need the new set of keys yet. I just stood on the porch for a long time, holding the old brass key with the faded HOME tag in the palm of my hand. My father was gone, his bags hastily thrown into the back of an Uber before I even arrived. The house was quiet, smelling faintly of old wood and the strong coffee Grandpa used to brew.

I walked into the kitchen, turned on the light, and for the first time since he passed away, I finally felt like I could breathe. I was safe. I was home. And I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Grandpa William was still looking out for me.