End of 2015, Age 19
His legs are screaming, yet he doesn't dare to slow down.
His breath hitches dangerously, his lungs going through overwork. His head is internally spinning, nausea threatening to settle in.
Even so, he doesn't stop. He can't stop. Not right now of all times. If that dream was real... If what he had just seen was true...
One clumsy leap somehow gets him over the low gate and onto the unruly lawn. The hanging yellow tape is swiped aside and the front door is thrown open.
He makes it up the steps by taking two at a time. His eyes flit to the stream of light under the only door to the right, and his hands fly to the knob...
He stands there at the entrance, spent and shaky, skin perspiring and thighs aching.
...She is there, alright... Just as he had told him she would be...
But there is one thing present that disturbs him: the familiar tote bag sitting right at the foot of the bed.
'...Why is it still here?'