When the doorbell rang on a cold autumn evening, William almost didn't know who to expect as he headed down the stairs of his cramped home. He exited the tight stairwell and strode the two paces to the front door, yanking it open to reveal a girl. Freckles danced across her cheeks which were flush with the chill, and her slight jaw quivered. She glanced up at him curiously from inside her hood.

 

"Uh, are you William Barnes?" Her voice was quiet, and he almost couldn't hear it over the howling wind. He was frozen in place, staring and staring at this girl in front of him. Her eyes, blue and glassy as the waves that he could smell even from his porch miles away from the surf. Those eyes, and the long dark hair. She looked so much like—

 

"Hello? Anyone home?" She was waving her hands in front of his face. He snapped out of his daydream, his own dark, mossy eyes settling on her as he shifted in the doorway.

 

"Who's asking?" he said, his voice hoarse from disuse over the long weeks he'd locked himself in his home.

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"It's me. Isabelle Cook, I mean. They should have called you about me."

 

Her voice held a note of annoyance in it now. He recalled the phone call the other day. His niece. She was his niece. And she had nowhere else to go now that her father was gone.

 

"Of course," he said quietly. "Why don't you come inside? It's chilly out."

 

"Oh, I know," was all she grumbled as she pushed her way past him into the apartment. She slung her bag on his worn couch, the fabric frayed from age and use. She plopped right down on the dark hardwood in front of the fireplace, gaze focused on the empty hearth. William was still standing on the threshold of the room, not quite sure what to do with his aching hands. He rubbed at his joints, trying to soothe a day's worth of writing draft after draft.

 

"Sorry. About your Pops. Pete was a good man." It was the only thing he could think to say to the girl he hadn't seen since she was barely a year old.

 

"Yeah, well, being a good person doesn't do much against an idiot behind a wheel, now does it?" She didn't even turn to face him, but Isabelle's shoulders and back were tight and shaking. William didn't think it was just from standing in the wind outside.

 

Her voice was barely louder than a breath. “Can you start this up please?” She motioned to the fireplace in front of her, and curled her legs under herself a little more.

 

William awkwardly pulled his skewed bathrobe closer around his pajamas as he crouched in front of the fireplace. He fumbled with the kindling and reached out for the lighter. Leaning forward in this way, cigarettes tumbled out of the pocket in his robe. Isabelle’s eyes slid to where they landed on the floor, but she said nothing. He finally got a fire started, and Isabelle only muttered her gratitude.

 

“Uh, I guess I should—have you eaten recently?” William scratched his head after placing the fallen cigarettes back in the packet and back on the mantle. Isabelle merely nodded, inching a little closer to the flames. “Right.” he said. He scuffled on his feet, the hardwood firm beneath his ragged slippers. “Well, if you do get hungry again, I have a couple things in the kitchen. It’s not much, but there’ll be more food tomorrow. I—”

 

“Look, it’s fine, alright? I won’t bother you. Just pretend I’m not here and we’ll get along great. I’ll be out of here soon enough anyway.” Isabelle finally turned to look at him. Her eyes were shining, but her mouth remained set in a grim line. William tried to say something to comfort her, to welcome her more, but decided against it. He simply nodded and slunk back up the stairs, robe dragging behind him. He gingerly closed the door to his room, sinking back against the peeling yellow paint on the wood. He rubbed his hand across his face again, stubble scraping against his fingertips, before moving over to his paper-strewn desk. He let his mind wander. It went straight to her. Her smile flashed through his thoughts.

 

Will.

 

He bolted upright. He knew he heard it. Her voice. Renee. But glancing around his cluttered bedroom, the bed shoved into the corner, covers and notebooks and pill bottles strewn everywhere, he realized he'd been imagining her again. Not surprising, with the girl who resembled her every likeness sitting downstairs. He lay his head down on the small empty space on his desk, closing his eyes. He focused on his breathing. He wanted to block out the memories cascading through him, but they clung to him.

 

Proverbial chains shackling him to what he was now faced with.

 

Parenthood.

 

William stood, shaking the thoughts from his head like fleas, and began to pace his room. He wrung his hands, rubbed his stubble again, but he could not quiet his mind.

 

William stood, shaking the thoughts from his head like fleas, and began to pace his room. He wrung his hands, rubbed his stubble again, but he could not quiet his mind.

 

William quickly peeked through his bedroom door, listening downstairs. He heard his niece down there, sobbing quietly. Her breathing was ragged and heaving, a sound nearly inhuman coming from her mouth. It was enough to send a jolt through him and leave his stomach rolling. But when he ducked downstairs a little later to check on her and have a smoke, her eyes were dry.

 

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