A short story inspired by the song “Ghosts That We Knew” written and performed by Mumford and Sons.

He came home to pack up the past—but found proof he’d never stopped being loved.

***

The key still fit.

That was the first surprise.

The second was how little had changed.

Same cookie jar on the counter—the one with a chipped lid and a goose wearing a bonnet. Same Tupperware, mismatched and stained, stacked in the cabinet like memories packed for leftovers. Same tablecloth, sun-faded in the center where sunlight had landed for forty years straight.

Michael set his overnight bag down by the door and let the silence move around him.

He’d arrived three days before his husband, Nate—who’d stayed behind in Chicago to wrap up the college semester and make sure his students got their finals. “You’ll need time,” Nate had said gently. “To say goodbye. Or something like it.”

Michael had nodded. He wasn’t sure what this would be. It wasn’t grief exactly. Not yet.

His mother had died two weeks earlier—a stroke, the neighbor said. “Mercifully quick.”
His father had died seven years before that—cancer, quiet, stubborn.
Michael hadn’t come back for either funeral. But now, as the last living member of the family, he had returned to empty the house.

He started in the obvious places. Linen closets. Junk drawers.

The bathroom cabinet still held his dad’s old electric razor—yellowed plastic, the cord wrapped haphazardly around the base like someone meant to put it away but never quite did. It smelled faintly of Old Spice.

Michael held it for a moment, thumb resting on the power switch, like it might still hum.

He hadn’t seen his father since the day he left for college.

That was the day he told them.

He stood in the living room, diploma still in the envelope, suitcase by the door, and told them he was gay. That he’d met someone. That they were moving to Chicago.

His father didn’t shout.

He just looked at the wall behind Michael and said, quietly:
“Don’t come back here like that.”

His mother had been folding towels. She didn’t say anything.

Michael had nodded once, walked out, and never returned.

The razor had stayed. He hadn’t.

The fridge was mostly empty except for expired jam and a box of Arm & Hammer baking soda that had likely voted in the last election.

Then he opened his old bedroom.

And stood still.

His trophies—JV track, mostly third place—still lined the shelf. His diploma from East Central High, framed. A collage of senior photos from graduation night, each one pinned precisely to the corkboard. His bedsheets were tucked military-tight, and his old hoodie still hung from the closet doorknob like he’d only just stepped out for practice.

It wasn’t a room waiting for him.

It was a memorial.

A version of him frozen in time—clean-shaven, closeted, college-bound—preserved like a family heirloom. Not the man he became. Not the man he is now.

Maybe that was how they grieved him. Quietly. Neatly. By remembering who he was, not who he became.

He wondered, not for the first time, if either of them had ever said aloud:
“I wonder who will have to handle all this when we’re gone.”

They never said much.

But they kept things.

Which is why, when he stood on a chair to reach the top shelf of the master bedroom closet—tugging down a dusty shoebox marked “RECITALS / CHURCH / TAPES”—he didn’t expect the weight of it.

Inside were old answering machine cassettes.

Eight. Maybe ten.

Each labeled only with a year. The most recent: 2022.

Beneath the tapes were other things—his baby book. His parents’ wedding photos. A dried corsage from prom. A photo from what must’ve been his father’s retirement party: a sheet cake with “Congratulations Ron!” barely legible under the plastic. A graduation tassel.

And tucked beneath a yellowed envelope labeled Juliette, a bundle of handwritten letters—his father’s name scrawled in the return corner, dated 1944. Folded carefully. Worn at the edges.

A few Branson snapshots had been slipped behind them—his parents posing by a lake, arms slung around other white-haired couples in matching navy baseball caps. A reunion. Maybe his father’s WWII buddies. The men were grinning. Holding beers. One had a hand on his dad’s shoulder like they’d known each other forever.

Everything felt so personal. So sacred.

Michael sat on the bed slowly, the box in his lap, unsure if he was about to invade something private—or if it had always been meant for him to find.

He dusted off the tape recorder from the nightstand drawer, clicked in the oldest cassette, and pressed play.

***

June 6, 1999—Age 22

“Hi. It’s… Michael. I just wanted to let you know I got here. To Chicago. I’m okay. The place is small but clean. There’s a diner on the corner that serves pancakes all day and the windows rattle every time the train goes by, but it’s kind of comforting.
I hope you got the letter. I know it was a lot. But I meant it.
I miss you. Just wanted you to know that.
Okay. That’s all.”
Click.

October 14, 1999—Age 22

“Hey. It’s me again. Michael.
Just wanted to check in. I wasn’t sure if you got the letter I sent in September—the one with the fall photo of the lakefront. The leaves here are actually turning red, not just brown.
I started a new job. It’s a temp thing—phones and filing mostly. But it pays rent. My boss has a candy bowl on her desk that she refills with those strawberry-wrapped ones. You know the kind.
Anyway. Hope you’re well. I think about you both.
That’s all for now.”
Click.

August 3, 2000—Age 23

“Hi.
I guess I just wanted to say… things didn’t work out.
With the person I moved here with. He left. Or maybe I did. I’m not sure anymore.
I’ve been trying to stay busy. I signed up for a watercolor class and I’m really bad at it, which is weirdly comforting.
Sometimes I walk the lake at night just to hear something that isn’t silence.
I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Maybe because there’s no one else.
I hope you’re okay.
I really do.”
Click.

May 12, 2004—Age 27

“Hi. It’s been a while.
I’m still here. Same apartment, different couch. I finally bought a real coffee table—no more milk crates.
I started working at a community arts nonprofit. I mostly run the newsletter and help with grants. The office smells like crayons half the time. It’s not glamorous, but I like it. Feels like I’m doing something good.
I went back to church a few weeks ago. Not the kind you’d pick—nobody handed me a pamphlet about hell on the way in. But there was music. And quiet.
Spring came early this year. The trees in the park all bloomed at once and looked ridiculous. Like the city overdressed for a party.
Anyway… just wanted to say hi. I hope you’re both okay.”
Click.

May 5, 2007—Age 30

“Hi.
I know it’s been a while. I saw on the news there was a tornado near Fulton—they said Old Highway 54 got hit pretty bad, and I just…
I don’t know if you’re okay.
I hope you are.
Please call me, or write, or—something.
I know we don’t talk. I know that was your choice. But I still needed to check.
Please.”
Click.

May 23, 2007—Age 30

“Hey.
Aunt Irene called me. Said the barn roof’s gone and a few trees came down, but you’re both okay.
I’m glad. I really am.
That’s all.”
Click.

November 18, 2010—Age 33

“Hi.
I’ve been meaning to call—just… life got busy, I guess.
There’s someone I’ve been seeing. For a while now. He’s good. Kind. The kind of person who brings soup when you’re sick and remembers your birthday without needing Facebook to tell him.
I don’t know why I’m telling you that. Maybe because it feels like something a son should get to share.
Anyway… hope you’re warm. Leaves are turning here.”
Click.

March 4, 2012—Age 35

“I heard about Aunt Irene.
I’m sorry. She was always kind to me. Even when it wasn’t easy for her to be.
I know you probably don’t want to hear this from me, but… I’m thinking of you.”
Click.

September 9, 2014—Age 37

“I got a new job. It’s… big. Like, office-with-a-window big.
I’m running the whole team now. It’s mostly spreadsheets and headaches, but I like it. I feel useful.
I remember how proud Dad was when I made honor roll in eighth grade.
I think about that more than you’d guess.”
Click.

June 2, 2015—Age 38

“Someone from the church newsletter—Martha something?—emailed me. Said Dad isn’t doing well.
I don’t know if it was okay for her to tell me.
I just… I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m allowed to say anymore.
But I’m thinking of you both.”
Click.

March 28, 2016—Age 39

“We got married. Last Friday.
Just us and a few friends and a judge who cried harder than anyone else.
His name is Nate. I know I’ve never said it before, but… you should know it.
We had pie afterward. Cherry. It rained a little, but only after.
I would’ve invited you. I wanted to.
You didn’t come. But I still wanted you to know.”
Click.

August 17, 2017—Age 40

“I just saw the church bulletin online. It said Dad passed.
I didn’t know.
I wish someone had called. I don’t know if I should’ve come. I don’t know if it would’ve mattered.
But I lit a candle. And I sat quiet for a while.
I still hear his voice sometimes.”
Click.

April 2, 2018—Age 41

“Hey.
Just thinking about you. About the house.
Is it too much now? The fields, the barn, the roof…
You don’t have to answer.
But I still wonder.”
Click.

November 15, 2019—Age 42

“Hi Mom.
It’s getting cold here. The kind of cold that makes your ears hurt when you forget a hat.
I hope the heater’s working. I remember how you used to tape blankets over the windows in winter—always said plastic looked tacky.
Just wanted to check in. I know you won’t call. But I still call anyway.”
Click.

November 28, 2021—Age 44

“Hi Mom.
We hosted Thanksgiving this year. Just a few close friends and Nate’s sister. Kept it small for social distancing.
I made your stuffing. The one with the celery and too much sage. Everyone loved it. I even used your trick with the stale bread and the chicken broth from a can.
I thought of you the whole time.
I think you’d be happy to know I finally learned how to cook something that doesn’t come in a box.
That’s all. Just… wanted you to know.”
Click.

***

October 9, 2024—Age 47

Michael sat on the old living room couch one last time.

The church was scheduled to come the next morning to pick up the furniture—couches, chairs, the hutch with the missing knob. Everything else was going into a dumpster. Some of it already had.

Nate would be here tomorrow, to help with the rest. To drive the rented van. To hold his hand during the quiet parts.

But for now, it was just him.

The house felt lonelier than it had earlier in the week. Like something essential had already been lifted from its bones. The lavender was fainter. The walls felt thinner.

He looked around the room—the wood paneling, the dusty photos, the coat hook by the door that still held his dad’s old ball cap—and felt the strangest urge.

He reached for his phone. His thumb hovered over Nate’s name.

Then moved.

He dialed the house number. The landline.

He didn’t even know if it still worked.

It rang once.
Then twice.
Then: Beep.

He could hear the click of the old answering machine from the back bedroom, still plugged in.

He paused.
Then spoke.

“Hi.
I know you’re not there. I guess I just…
I’m here. At the house.
I didn’t come for the funeral. I couldn’t. I didn’t know if it would be welcome. Or if I could sit in that church without breaking.
But I came now. I’m going through everything. Your sweaters still smell like lavender. There’s a birthday card from 1989 in the junk drawer.
And I found the tapes.
My messages.
You kept them.
All these years, I thought I was talking to no one. That I’d just been echoing into a place I didn’t belong anymore. But you… you kept my voice.
I don’t know what that means. If it was guilt. Or love. Or something in between.
But it mattered to me.
Thank you.
For holding on to something I didn’t know was still mine.”

He paused.

From the other room, he could hear the machine stop recording.
A soft mechanical click.

And then silence.

Michael stared at the phone a moment longer.
Then set it down on the armrest beside him.

Tomorrow, the house would be empty. But for now, it had heard him.