The padlock was rusted shut. I stood on the porch in the dark with two suitcases and a flashlight I had bought at a gas station forty miles back, and the door would not open, and for a long moment I simply stood there listening to the lake. The water moved against the dock my grandfather built when I was seven, the same dock where he taught me to tie a proper knot and told me that patience was not about waiting but about knowing what you were waiting for.I did not understand what he meant then. I drove four hours and arrived after dark to a door I could not open, and I sat down on the porch steps and listened to the water and still was not sure I understood. There was a rock by the woodpile.It took six hits to break the padlock. The smell came first when the door swung open: pine, dust, and underneath that the particular dry warmth of cedar. My grandfather kept cedar blocks in every drawer and closet.

He said it kept the moths away, but I think he also just liked the smell, the way some people attach themselves to a scent not for its function but because it belongs to a version of their life they want to keep close. I swept the flashlight beam across the room and everything was where he had left it: the plaid couch with the sunken middle cushion, the bookshelf he built himself still crowded with paperbacks whose spines had cracked and recracked from years of rereading, the kitchen table where we played cards by lamplight while he made hot chocolate too sweet. His paintings were still on the walls, nine of them, landscapes he had made himself over decades: the lake at sunrise, the birch trees in autumn, the old stone bridge two miles up the road, a deer at the edge of the clearing with its head raised as though it had just heard something it was not sure about.