The old place sat at the corner of Ladiga Street and 5^th Avenue, still shouldered by oaks that leaned too close, like they were whisperin’ warnings. The front gate hung crooked, the latch long rusted through. I pushed it open slow, and it gave out a sound like a sigh. Like it’d been holding its breath fifteen years waiting on me to come back.

I don’t rightly know what I expected. Maybe for the porch to crumble, the roof to cave in, or for the whole place to’ve given up, like Aunt Lily Pearl’s memory was all that kept it standing. But it wasn’t gone. It was just… waiting.

The windows were clouded, the paint peeled, but the heart of it, the bones of home, still stood firm. Every board and nail seemed to hum with something alive, something that remembered me even if I wished it wouldn’t.

I stepped onto the porch. The boards underfoot creaked my name in the same rhythm she used to call it: Tom-my-Wayne, Tom-my-Wayne…

When I opened the front door, the air that came out was thick and cold, like a cellar that had been holding secrets too long. The parlor was just as she left it, doilies yellowed on the arms of the chairs, a Bible open on the table like she’d stepped away mid-verse, the smell of rosewater faint but still clinging.

And on the mantel, I swear it near stopped my heart, was her locket. The one she never took off, not even to sleep. It shouldn’t have been there. Sheriff Cole himself told me he buried her with it.

I picked it up, thumbed open the clasp, and inside were two pictures: one of her, smiling like the sun itself, and the other of me, ten years old, gap-toothed, and grinning.

Then, faint as breath on a mirror, came the whistle.

Soft. Familiar.
The same tune she used to hum shellin’ peas on summer afternoons.

I froze, the locket trembling between my fingers.

The sound drifted from the kitchen; slow, wavering, like it was moving down the hall.
My heart hammered, but my feet carried me forward anyway.

The kitchen looked half-frozen in time: a chipped enamel basin, the kettle still on the stove, and a row of mason jars lined up like soldiers. The curtains fluttered, though no wind came through.

And on the table — written in the dust, clear as day — were the words:

“YOU KNOW IT WEREN’T YOUR FAULT.”

The locket dropped from my hand, hit the floor with a hollow clink.

“Lily Pearl?” I whispered.

The whistle stopped.

And from the doorway behind me, in that space between memory and dream, a shape stirred. Faint, thin as smoke, wearing an apron and a sorrowful smile.

Then the kitchen light blinked once and went dark.

*****

New Yesterdays can be found at: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon, as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.