The boxes contained everything that once filled a house, and now they occupied a spot on the sidewalk. Tia, the older sister, had counted their bags three times since the car drove away, not because she had lost anything, but because counting occupied her hands while they waited. Somewhere beyond the fog, in one of the lit windows, was a woman they had met twice—once at a funeral and once during a brief visit that was meant to make this place feel less unfamiliar. Kami, her sister, reached over and took her hand without being asked, just like she used to when a room became too loud. They stood there together in the mist, watching the building, hoping for a sign of which window might eventually feel like their own.
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What a poignant image!