Inheritance of ash

...until you can't.

"You always say that. Then you care a lot when I pick the wrong one."

She smiled, despite herself.

Another voice joined in from somewhere deeper in the house — muffled by distance, but unmistakably a mother's. "Tell her to set the table! I'm not doing it this time!"

"Vicky!" the dad called again, louder. "You're on plates and forks!"

Her feet moved before her thoughts did. Dream-logic. She passed the stairs. The framed photos. A coat hanging crooked on the wall. The scratch marks of a dog or cat long gone near the bottom corner of a doorframe.

All of it felt...

Right.

Like she'd been here a million times.

The kitchen was small, but filled with life. The radio played low in the background — something old, folky. Her dad stood at the stove in a too-big flannel, spatula in hand, flipping pancakes. His face was indistinct, but his presence was solid. Like gravity. Like sun.

He glanced over at her with a smile that made her chest ache.

"Grab those forks, champ," he said.

She moved to the counter. Her hand paused.

There were four forks.

She blinked.

"Wait. I thought—"

Before she could finish, her mom walked in, tying her hair up with a hair tie, humming along to the radio. She moved like someone who danced through life even when she was just making coffee.

"There's four of us?" Vicky asked, suddenly unsure. Her own voice sounded smaller now.

Her dad didn't turn around. "Of course there are, sweetheart."

"But who's the fourth?"

Silence.
Brief. Sharp.

Then: her mom smiled brightly and said, "You know who."

The forks slipped from Vicky's hand and clattered to the floor.

Something shifted in the room. Something subtle. A chill.

She looked down and saw not forks, but glints of silver scattered at her feet.

And among them—

The bracelet.

Glowing softly. Faintly green.

She knelt to pick it up.

When she stood again—

The kitchen was empty.

No parents. No pancakes. No warmth.

Just an old, quiet house.

The walls didn't hum anymore. The light had cooled. The chairs at the table were gone. Only one plate remained — hers. Already set. Already waiting.

She looked at the bracelet in her hand.

It wasn't glowing anymore.

Only her reflection stared back in the silver — younger than she felt, older than she remembered. Alone.

The silence pressed against her again.

"Who did I lose?" she whispered.

No answer came.

Just the soft echo of footsteps, fading. Like they were already gone.

And maybe had been, for a very long time.