The first month is the hardest. I barely leave the apartment. I can't even look at the old house, let alone figure out what to do with it. The realtor finally stopped calling after I ignored her hundredth call. Libby was practically running the Shaky Spoon, and I owe her everything for it.

I missed Sam. I missed him more than words could say. And I know that I was a fool.

His grumpy grunts when I asked a silly question. His neverending frown and the intense way he'd stare me down, even in the most light hearted situations. That smile. That could break through a storm and send my whole body into a flutter of buzzing, sighing, tingles. That smile that could make me forget I was afraid of the noise, of the lightning.

He's gone though. The number that I had for him was disconnected. And I really have no idea how I can contact him otherwise. And besides, the message is clear. He doesn't want to be contacted. Not by me, at least.

Two months in, after I'd gotten myself back together. After I'd returned to the Spoon, and I was beginning to feel myself again, Rock ambushed me one night after work.

"Come on, let's go." He grabbed me by the arm, pulling me from my apartment with strength that was surprising for someone his age.

"What?! Where?!" I yelped, grabbing a hoodie and slipping my feet into boots as he barely waited for me. I stumbled as I hopped along, trying to catch up.

"It's time. We're doing this." He turned to me, and held up a key. I felt my heart drop.

"Rock."

"No. This is it, Max. No more of this silliness. Let's go. I won't take no for an answer. You've got to do this. For me." He directed, and then that was the end of the discussion. We marched across the lawn, down over the gravel and toward the old house that had stood silent and empty for over two months.

I was scared to go in. Scared to see the things that brought so many memories. Scared to see any new ones that might pop up, taking me by surprise.

But then. When he pushed open the door, and went through the first floor, flipping on light after light, something happened.

It wasn't the same place.

Sure, the same bones were there. Some of the same structures. But it wasn't the same.

Sam had worked magic. More than magic. A miracle. The first floor was opened up. He'd knocked down at least one wall and part of another to make one great room. The picture windows opened up to the beautiful lawn and trees outside. There was crown molding, and gleaming hand restored original wood floors. The old brick showed through on one wall, and the fireplace had a beautiful mantel hand crafted from stone. There was a dining room that was cozy and perfect, with wainscotting and a rustic wood and glass chandelier.

I walked through room after room, not believing my eyes. The kitchen was unrecognizable. He'd used old, restored wood that gleamed like polished stone for the counter tops. There was a beautiful, big porcelain farmhouse sink. A hanging chandelier that belonged straight out of a restoration guide's wet dream.

"Oh, Rock." I breathed, running my hands along the wooden counters. I could see Sam everywhere. I could see him working. Hear him working. His own personal touches were reflected in every choice and it was...perfect. It was beyond perfect. It was beautiful. The meals that could be made in this kitchen. The family dinners. The laughter. The love. I could practically feel it, feel the warmth around me. A warmth that hadn't existed in over 15 years.

"Let's go upstairs." Rock said softly, his voice barely contained with emotion.

I followed my uncle up the stairs. White steps with restored wood tops. A gleaming curving banister. The walls were a soft blue. A blue I had picked.

Upstairs is more of the same. It is a different house. Each room breathes new life. One room is small, the walls painted cheerful butter yellow. A fan with painted blades hangs from the ceiling, ready to rotate lazily on a hazy summer day. Another room is larger, with dove gray walls that set off the gleaming wood floors. This room has a rug on the floor, something beautiful and ornate with flecks of bright, cheerful color throughout. All the rooms are empty of furniture. Waiting for someone to make them whole.

The last room is the master bedroom. My mother's room. Sam's room.

I walk in, holding my breath, and I turn on the light.

Sam has knocked down one of the walls and rebuilt the closet that was there. It also allows access to the main bathroom on the second floor. There is a small, cozy reading nook that's been created by the large window. The furniture he'd been using remains where he'd left it, but I can see the room for what it is. What it could be.

The walls are green, with a bright floral wall paper against one wall. It should look dated, and dowdy, but it doesn't. It's lovely, and soft. Feminine in just the right way.

I feel the tears start, without even realizing. I make my way into the bathroom, and marvel at the changes there as well. Clawfoot tub. Glass enclosed shower. Beautiful teal tile against creamy white walls. I sit down on the edge of the tub and I just gaped at the beauty of it all. I'm alone in that small room for some time. My uncle gives me space.

And so, two months after Sam has left, I sit in his masterpiece. His blood, sweat and tears, and I add some tears of my own. I cry and cry and cry.

Because this house is a different place. And I am different. And it is because of him. And he's gone.