"It feels wrong, being back here," Theon remarks, his tone casual, as though we are strangers, discussing the weather. "You know, after everything."

I nod, even though I know he's not looking, letting the breeze carry my agreement away. In all honesty, what I have to say to him about us doesn't matter. Hasn't mattered for the past five months.

I slant my eyes toward Theon, categorizing his appearance. He wears a black cloak over a brown and black leather tunic. It is washed-out, just like his chance of getting into his fathers graces. Almost like he knows what I'm thinking, his arms cross across his chest, unconsciously protective. Looking away from him makes the bittersweet ache behind my ribs just a little less painful.

Shaking from a combination of nerves and the cold, I step toward the hand-constructed 30 foot tall castle before us. The sharp lines of its architecture and wide, staring windows are all the same, the gray walls has not changed, not even by a shade. But the place feels different, cold, as though the owners have gone on a permanent vacation.

Despite his words and probably against his better judgment, Theon ambles toward the castles doors, legs awkward and weak like a toddler learning its first steps. The shaking in his hands, the tightness of his jaw – every inch of him screams for me to go to him, take that trembling hand in mine, hold him close and whisper quiet nothings meant to soothe.

I don't move, don't say anything, or offer assistance as Theon struggles to move the lard padlock. Finally, there is a twist of his hand, the awkward grating of metal, fingers slipping ever-so-slightly. And then the shining metal chain falls into his hands, the place unlocks, opens, and the door squeaks as he pushes. Just like it used to.

"Ladies first," he says, feigning gallantry and forcing a smile as he gestures for me to proceed. I don't buy the act. I know this, know him, know that the look in his eyes means he's scared to go first, afraid of what we'll find. If, indeed, we find anything.

My feet move without my conscious instruction, a puppet tied to strings. The door is five steps away, three steps, one. Crossing the threshold is easy. It's what's on the other side that's hard.

So hard. Because I remember.

This house is a monument to our relationship, a microcosm of every good thing we had – friendship, love, all those summers spent burning the midnight oil and talking ourselves to death. We were a work of art, he and I, all complementary colors and harsh brushstrokes, I with my icy calm and Theon with his firecracker backtalk. We had it all – mutual respect, kinship, history. Our stories tangled for as far back as I could remember. I know him like I know the hours of the day, like the turning of the seasons; after so long, he's become predictable.