The drive to the south is unfamiliar.

When she first started college, Kira would take the train home to her mother's hometown every couple of months.

After her mother's death, those visits were reduced to twice a year, once in the summer and then for Christmas , on which she was still obligated to see her father.

Each year, the trips became more draining and more volatile. But Kira has always done her duties, the finest example of a respectable young lady, whatever the cost.

With another funeral to attend, she must perform one last act of filial piety.

Traveling to her mother's hometown , she could tolerate it. Growing up in the city, she felt like a dot in a work of pop- art, one small speck that made a beautiful wider painting.

It was easy to feel anonymous. She likes to feel anonymous.

Today that city seems far away. A crumpled map is spread on the dashboard because her navigation app had been glitching ever since she left the last town.

The day that she read through her father's last will and testament, she was stunned to see that the instructions for his funeral involved moving his body to the town where he was born, not the city where he spent his whole adult life.

She knows from stories told between liquor bottles during her childhood that her father grew up in a small town, the kind where everyone knows one another and by extension everyone else's business.

Small towns give her the creeps.

For someone who likes to fade into the crowd, they make Kira feel a little too significant.

The inside of her car is pristine. As she only plans to stay for a couple of days, her luggage amounts to one small bag in the passenger footwell, and another on the seat. Poking out through the open zipper is the crinkled paper packet containing her prescription pills.

For three weeks she has been taking the pills the doctor gave her, and she hasn't had another episode since.

Forgetfulness. Confusion. Kira put it all down to stress because what else would it be.

It took two years for her housemate , Will, to convince her that waking up miles away from home in the morning with no recollection of how she got there every once in a while isn't healthy, and it can't be explained away with just stress.

As the crop fields fade into the forest, Kira has to concentrate more. This is where the roads become winding rather than wide and open, and so many dirt tracks lead off from the black-top that she has to focus on finding the sign for the town. She does not want to miss it and has to trace it back.

"Come on..." she murmurs. "Don't do this to me."

She must have missed the turning.

The last leg of the drive seems to have lasted for hours and she only stopped for gas at the last city.

As her hands start to sweat on the wheel, she slows and peers in amongst the trees. Only driving and returning home to see her father can give her this anxiety; the combination of the two is toxic. It makes no difference that this time her father will be in a coffin.

Just when she is slowing and preparing to go back, she spots the wooden sign.

It was buried amongst the creeping vines and overhanging trees. The words seem to have been carved by hand and each letter splinters.

Maple Woods.

Three miles away.

Kira turns and follows the winding path. Not one car passes her in the opposite direction.

The town doesn't emerge as one monolith. First it appears as strange little houses nestled in amongst the woods, like wood cabins that she might see in a costume drama.

Only the cars parked on the verge close to the properties assure her that she hadn't stepped back in time.

Soon enough, signs of modern life come to the forefront, and she finds himself exhaling in relief.

She passes a small movie theater showing films from last season, and a real estate agency, and a small line of stores. None of the streets seem to have names marked, and the map doesn't answer half of his questions.

Kira frowns and pulls over at the side of the road to look closer. Tired from the hours of driving, she rubs her eyes.

No amount of kneading makes the map make any more sense. Just when she was starting to panic, she looks out of the window and sees a friendly looking lady walking down the street.

"Excuse me?" She rolls down the window as fast as she can.

"Could you help me find this house?"

She looks nervous for just a second before taking a step closer to the car. Few strangers must pass through this town.

"Where are you headed?"

"I'm looking for the old Wilder house. My father, Jack Wilder, grew up there. I'm sorry, I've never visited the town before."

"Jack Wilder?" She surveys her with curious eyes, but she doesn't seem as wary as before. Judging by her age, she would have been a mate with her father at school.

Sure enough, she tilts her head to the side in something like recognition. "That must make you Akira."

Caught off guard, she hesitates before answering. Word of her father's passing would have spread through the town, not least because his funeral will be held here tomorrow, but she didn't expect anyone to know her name.

As far as she knows, her father never returned during adulthood. Still, it isn't outrageous to think that her father kept in contact with some of the people here. "

Yes," she smiles, "I'm Akira."

"We were all so sorry to hear of your father's passing. The whole town will attend tomorrow, you know? We want to pay our respects."

Kira has to work to keep the stiff smile on her face. Suddenly, her jaw aches and her cheeks feel like rubber.

"Thank you."

"You need to keep heading down this way but take the first left. The old house is at the end of the Apple Tree Lane, but I'm afraid you'll find it worse for wear. I don't think anyone has been inside in a long time. It's quite dilapidated. There is an inn here in the middle of town if you need somewhere to stay."

"That's okay," she says quickly. She does not want to have to socialize more than necessary, and those places are often the center of attention.

"I'm the sole beneficiary of my father's estate, which means the house belongs to me now. I'd like to see it."

She thinks the conversation is done, but even when he pulls away a glance in the rear-view reveals that she watches her all the way down the street, until she makes that first left.

The lane she is looking for isn't marked, but as soon as she sets his eyes on the gnarled, aged apple trees overhanging the road, she knows where she needs to go.

Her wheels crunch on the uneven terrain on their way up the narrow path.

The house looms as soon as she crosses a small hillock and she cuts the engine some way from the porch.

Like much of the town, the building is old; compared to the stores he passed it is clearly one of the oldest. She has no key, but the door creaks open with the slightest nudge.

The grandparents that she never met must have lived here until they died, because some relics of their generation remain in the decoration. Much of the property seems to have been gutted, though.

Little furniture remains, only the most rickety pieces. No art hangs on the walls. He cannot identify every room. The kitchen is traditional, with no modern fixtures.

Kira checks the running water and is relieved to find it functional.

Though worn and unlived in, the house is not completely derelict. Peeling paint can be covered. Floorboards can be repaired.

The worst part is the dust.

Kira sneezes three times before she reaches the stairs. The first floor above is an unusual feature of a house so old.

Each surface is covered in such a thick layer of dust that it has begun to fade from gray to black.

Upstairs she finds two more rooms. In one, some books remain, yellowing and damp. Kira picks up the top, a collection of Longfellow in translation, and raises her eyebrows.

She knows so little of the family that lived here.

Only as she paces and the boards protest beneath her shiny shoes does she remember that he has to sleep here.

The prospect of the inn in town might not be so terrible after all. Sighing, she returns to the ground floor and searches for anywhere that he could lay down tonight.

A moth-eaten couch remains that he has no intention of touching. In the end she returns to her car, leaning back on the hood as he dials Will's number.

"How's paradise?"

"The house is a mess," she says. She doesn't mention out loud that it is a relief just to hear a familiar voice.

The city seems a million miles away. The short journey across the country feels like a flight to a different corner of the world.

"This whole town looks like it hasn't been touched for years."

"Are the people weird?"

"I haven't met many of them, Will." Kira narrows her eyes as she tracks her eyes around the grounds of the house.

Rotten apples cover the overgrown grass. Nothing has been tended here for a long time. Weeds have become flowers, creeping up with menacing thorny stems but delicate purple petals.

"I have a funeral to attend tomorrow. Shit, I hope no one expects me to say anything."

"You'll be fine. Everyone will just bow and maybe want to shake your hand, and then you'll be done and you can come home and pretend none of it ever happened."

"I have the house to think about." Even as she says it, she knows it's ridiculous.

There might be a real estate agency in town but there's no way that anyone is buying property.

This house doesn't have resale value, and she sure as hell isn't going to be living in it. For all it's worth, it might as well sit here empty, gathering dust the way it has for all these years.

"I just – yeah, no, you're right. I'm up in my head about it."

From the end of the line, crackly and tinny, she hears Will's voice soften.

"Of course you are. But this is the last time you have to think about him."

The mention of her father makes Kira rub her face again. Her forehead will crease permanently if she isn't careful.

These last two years at grad school have been draining the life out of her, but these past weeks since she got the call have been worse.

As if burying the man isn't enough, she has this place and this house to think about. Why couldn't she have had a normal father?

Why couldn't she have had any other father in the world? Kira stopped thinking those thoughts as a teenager, shoved them far to the back of her mind, but they're having a resurgence like the last tour of an ancient rock back who ought to have retired long ago.

"I can't stay in the house. It's grim."

"Does the town have a hotel?"

"An inn, I've heard."

"Check in there. Don't worry about the money or anything else. Just get yourself a hot shower and some dinner and you'll feel a lot better about tomorrow."

Kira nods. "You're right. I will."

As soon as she hangs up, she misses Will's voice.

Will runs seminar classes three days a week at the university between his own studies.

If it weren't for that schedule, he might have been able to come with her.

He probably still would have done, if Kira had asked, but she didn't.

Asking for help isn't something she has ever been good at.

Will gradually coaxed her into seeing a doctor; it took months, and even then she was as skittish as a cornered animal on the plastic seat.

From a young age, she was used to setting her lips in a line and telling her teachers that nothing was wrong.

Over time, she became good at telling herself the same thing. Gaslighting is what her doctor called it .

She was so convincing that for a while she almost believed it.

She pretended that her life was normal, like her friends', and if she tried hard enough he could forget the reality for minutes at a time.