That this choice is my own and one I've considered for a while now. That it's difficult being here more often than it's easy.

[ she walks past the very spot matthew died every day. it sparks something sharp and acrid every time until she looks away again.

even that hat on a peg by the door offers little comfort in its stark reminder of how much she's lost. it's a wound long since healed, but there are days when the memories ache just a little more, like cold seeping into old bones to make every inch of her stiff and sore and hollow. ]

And that I have something I want to hold onto, and that means leaving this place behind.