I'm tired. I'm so tired.

Never before had I imagined I would feel so lost in my own house. My father bought it so long ago, I lived in here with both my parents before my mom passed away, then alone after dad was gone. Then I wasn't alone anymore, and now I am again.

The long hallways, large windows and high ceilings gave me a dizzying headache as I tried to navigate through them. I got lost a few times, turning to dead ends and locked doors. I don't even know why they were locked, or why they needed to be locked. What made them so special?

Soon it became apparent that I didn't have a specific destination in mind, I was just wandering. Maybe I had planned on doing something somewhere, but I can't remember where or what. I stopped walking, feeling my entire body wobble from the motion, as if unprepared.

It's as if I wasn't even existing. Like, my brain and body were two separate things entirely. I glared at the rug, taking a deep breath. I stood. Silent. Then glanced to my right.

Oh… That door…

My brain told me not to open it as I reached for the handle. Cold. Locked. My arm fell limply to my side. Was I wrong? Did I mix up the doors again? They do all look awfully similar sometimes, and I don't care anymore about any of them.

I blinked. I ran down the hall, past all the geeky memorabilia I collected over the years and the ostentatious purchases I made in hopes of building another persona to be, anyone but myself. Eventually I stopped doing that, but I kept myself attached to the objects. I am going to need them again soon.

All that stuff was orderly and elegantly displayed on hallways. Prints were exposed on the wall, set pieces had dedicated tables for them to be placed on, and is that a rock? Why have I even bought that? There wasn't any speck of dust, though I don't know who would care enough to clean it. Had I programmed it into my software? Or have I modified the AC unit?

I turned a corner. Two. Skidding to a halt in front of a different door, this one ajar, messing up the rug in the process. I gasped, out of breath, one hand on the doorframe as my legs tried not to give out beneath me.

I entered slowly, cautiously, as if someone were sleeping inside. I forgot why I was in here. The confusion left as soon as it came, and I turned to a desk. Top drawer on the right, I remembered. Underneath some forgotten files of paper, I knew, was a key. It wasn't a fancy one or anything, just an ordinary key to an ordinary door. There were so many in this house.

I stared at it, almost afraid to touch it. I heard a familiar voice in my head, my voice, that is, telling me not to touch the key, but motivating me to grab it anyways.

It was cold.

Once again, I took off. Not bothering to close the drawer or the door or fix the rug as I ran past more rugs and more drawers and even more doors. Up the stairs again, two, maybe even three steps at a time. Running through the halls with their high ceilings once filled with laughter and high hopes. All the doors looked the same when they're a blur, but I remembered where I needed to go.

I stopped. Panting. At that infamous door. I used to love it, catching myself smiling every time I passed it. Finding myself just standing, unable to control my excited giggles, from just beyond the door itself.

My brain told me not to open it as I inserted the key and twisted. I put it in the wrong way at first. The door creaked as it crawled back. Did it always do that? Pocketing the key, I stepped inside the room. Dark. Cold.

Lonely. So lonely.

I shut the door behind me, not liking how loud it sounded. I didn't bother turning on the light switch and by the time I considered it I was already a good five steps away from it. I opted for the lamp instead, fingertips touching its soft shade as I felt for the small knob that would turn it on.

The light was dull, barely illuminating the part of the room of which it stood, on a white desk. I stared at the lamp for a minute, admiring the baby lamb that decorated it. It was my idea. I didn't want a boring lamp. She had picked it out.

I sucked in my breath through clenched teeth and forced myself to look away from the lamp. I watched my shadow, still as a statue, the only thing I wanted to look at for the moment.

Maybe coming in here was a mistake? Still, I didn't want to leave.

I stood up straighter, fixing my posture, liking how confident my shadow looked. Knowing I didn't come in here to just look at my shadow yet not exactly knowing why I was here either at the same time was making me feel dumb.

I knew why I refused to look anywhere else, even if I didn't care to acknowledge it, but once again, my body betrayed my brain as I turned around. Staring. Hands clenched into fists. Nerve wavering. I stared at it, my old joy. A symbol of innocence, and now, burning pain. Barely touching the light, securely against the other side of the wall, was the small cot.

The crib.

That's what she called it. That's what they called it there, wasn't it? The white wood matching the white lamp that complemented the yellow blanket folded neatly inside.

I could only take one step before I shut my eyes, remembering having the cot custom made. Remembering how badly she wanted to set it up all by herself and failing. Of me trying to help her and failing even more miserably. Remembering everyone — Limbo, Shu, Helvetica, Mozu, Ginger, even dad — all inside this room. Laughing, talking, goofing off. Remembering how I had gotten furious with the instructions given, chucking a screwdriver into the wall and getting it stuck there. Remembering how happy she looked when it was complete, more paint on all of us combined than the walls. Remembering how, even after the cot had collapsed in on itself, she was still smiling and joking around.

I opened my eyes, the familiar stinging sensation of tears beginning to form. I tried to hold them back, tried to push them down and escape from them. I was never successful, feeling the first wave slowly roll down my cheek. The room blurred, just like the halls did, before I blinked, letting more tears slip by.

I took another step towards the cot. Then two. Three. Holding back a pathetic sniffle, I slowly reached inside. For a minute, I imagined an infant laid there, eyes the same hue as hers staring back at me. I jerked back, shaking the image away. I loved and hated it all at once.

My sob filled the quiet room. Gripping the edge of the cot with both hands, I let out a shaky breath, watching my tears plop down on the carpet. Still looking down, my hand found itself inside the cot once again, feeling the cotton bedding and slowly trailing past a blanket until it touched something even softer. I grabbed the stuffed toy by its leg, pulling it out while I slowly crumbled to the floor. I hugged it tight. Not wanting to let it go. I brought it to my face and allowed myself to sob again, the sound now muffled by a stuffed cat.

Grey, with its ears twisted on a strange angle. She had found it humorous, and it was hard to coax a smile out of her on those final days. It was the last thing we bought together. Barely three days later did I realize the toy would never be used. I pulled it back, gazing into its black eyes.

The cat looked like it felt sorry for me, looking back with what I assumed as pitiful eyes. I was pitiful, so I wouldn't blame it. I hugged it again, feeling a strange sense of comfort in the action.

There were so many things I wanted to do instead, though. I wanted to scream. To throw something. Everything. To burn it down, burn the entire house down, and hopefully I would go with it, but I wouldn't dare leave this place different from how she left it.

Instead, I sat. On the floor. Cradling the stuffed toy. Just like I do every week. As if it would make them both come back.

"I'm sorry, my love…" I weakly croaked, not sure if I was referring to my dead wife or dead daughter.