Friday, May 22nd 2015

Jack stepped into the house, the familiar creak of the old wooden floorboards beneath his feet bringing him an odd sense of unease. It had been weeks since he'd last set foot in this place, and the weight of the silence hung heavily around him.

He wasn't sure what he had expected when he came back, but it certainly wasn't this. Everything was still the same. His father's wellies lay by the door, and the faint smell of the farm lingered in the air.

Jack set his bag down on the kitchen counter, his gaze falling on a single piece of paper placed on the table. His father's handwriting, messy and hurried, was scrawled across the page. Jack took a step closer, his chest tightening as he read the note:

Jack,

I found the key to Mark's room. I know it's been locked for a while, but I've gone

ahead and opened it up for you. Take a look if you want, there's no rush. It's your

choice.

See you soon, I hope, Dad,

The words hit him like a wave, and Jack's hands trembled as he set the note back on the table and found his lays carrying him to his brother's room before he even had the thought. Mick's old bedroom door loomed ahead, the faded multicolored letters spelling out 'MICK' on the door.

Jack swallowed, steeling himself. He was here now. For the first time, he had the space to process it all. He gently creaked open the bedroom door, and the moment it swung in, Mick's scent hit him. That familiar smell—mixing with the old, dusty air of the room. Jack's breath caught in his chest. He had forgotten that scent, but it hit him all at once like a flood, carrying him back in time.

Christmas mornings when he'd rush to wake Mick up before sunrise to go downstairs and open their presents. The hours spent playing Fifa on the PlayStation in this very room with Mick and his friends, the walls echoing with laughter and playful insults. The stupid arguments they'd have over who was winning, who was cheating, all the little things that now seemed so trivial but were so important then. He even remembered the one time he accidentally gave Mick a nosebleed by throwing a TV remote at his head during one of their fights.

The room was just as he remembered it—frozen in time. The bed wasn't made. The duvet, lined with navy blue, red, and white, was bunched up messily as though Mick had just tossed it aside when he'd woken up. A broken lava lamp sat on the bedside locker, beside some loose coins and a packet of tissues. There was a red pillow on the floor, covered with a thin layer of dust.

A black electric guitar—one Mick had never learned to play—hung on the wall, and next to it was the keyboard. Jack smiled bitterly. Mick had always wanted to learn, but he never did. Instead, the instruments had become another reminder of unfulfilled potential, dreams never realized. The room was still exactly as Mick had left it, almost as if the day Mick died had never happened. And maybe, for his mother, it hadn't. Jack knew she hadn't touched the room since that day. Not once.

There was a bookshelf along one wall, with an odd mix of objects: Harry Potter Lego figurines lined up in a row—Harry, Dumbledore, Voldemort, and Dobby, all looking so out of place now. There were medals and trophies from all of Mick's accomplishments: hurling, Gaelic football, swimming, even karate. Jack remembered Mick winning some of those medals. He remembered the pride in his brother's face.

And then, Jack's eyes landed on something unexpected—a framed photo of the two of them that Jack had never seen before. The photo was of Mick and him, standing together at a BBQ in the yard. The picture had been taken the year Mick died, just months before it happened.

Mick was grinning, holding a bottle of Carlsberg in one hand. Jack stood beside him, looking awkward in his hand-me-down clothes—corduroy trousers he hated and a too-big shirt. He held a bottle of Club Orange, pretending to be drunk, just like Mick had told him to. It was one of those rare moments of Jack trying to keep up with Mick, wanting to be part of the fun, part of his brother's world.

Jack moved toward the record collection on the shelf. His fingers brushed across the vinyls, lingering on each one for a moment. He didn't know how many of them Mick had actually listened to, but there were so many—each one a marker of his brother's eclectic taste in music.

Jack pulled one from the shelf—Bruce Springsteen: The Greatest Hits. He'd never really listened to Springsteen, but he knew Mick had. The music filled the space, and Jack's chest tightened as nostalgia surged over him.

Flicking through the vinyls, he smiled when he found it—the one he had been looking for.

Too Low for Zero, Elton John.

Jack held the record in his hands like it was something sacred, a relic from a time before everything went wrong. This was the album Mick had played on repeat throughout their childhood.

"I'm Still Standing".

Their song—the one they had sung together, laughed to, the one that had carried them through their better days. It was impossible to separate the song from Mick.

Jack gently slid the album from its sleeve, preparing to play it one last time. But as he opened the cover, a small piece of paper fell to the floor. He cocked an eyebrow and picked it up, reading the words written in Mick's familiar scrawl:

Jack, I knew you'd find this - good auld Elton coming in clutch! Let me start by saying, I love you, and I apologise. I hate that I did this to you, but I haven't been well for some time now. I don't know what's wrong with me, but I don't want to do it anymore. I hope one day you'll forgive me. Do what makes you happy and fuck what anyone else thinks. I love you no matter what. Mick.

Jack stood frozen, his breath catching in his throat. A tear slipped down his cheek, smearing the ink on the page as he quickly folded it up and slipped it into his pocket. The words burned inside him. Mick's apology and love—it was the only thing that had felt truly unconditional from his brother. It was everything Jack had needed to hear, but at the same time, it felt like a weight on his heart.

He wiped his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the air fill his lungs for the first time in what felt like forever. Mick's legacy was both a blessing and a burden. But Jack was determined to carry it forward—this time, on his own terms.